


This Love Is War

by luminescence2



Category: One Direction
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alternating Points of View, Angst, Depression, Drug Addiction, Fluff, Harry has PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, PTSD, Sadness, Tears, Therapy, harry also has a neighbor named louis, harry has a psychologist, hints at ziam at the very end, louis has a youtube channel, louis is a drug addict, there's a happy ending i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 05:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12720288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminescence2/pseuds/luminescence2
Summary: he said that their love was poisonous. i asked if, since it was poison, if it was possible to overdose on it. he said absolutely. (or the classic therapist/patient fic that nobody asked for)





	This Love Is War

**Author's Note:**

> hello again!! this story is a classic 'therapist and patient' fic, with lots of angst and pining and sad stories. WARNINGS: mentions of suicide, explicit drug abuse, and cases of PTSD

“So sorry I was late,” Harry says, rushing in and collapsing on the sofa. I peer up at him from my clipboard, not offended in the slightest. I look at him, notice that he’s sweaty, and avoiding eye contact, which means that he’s distracted. I sit up, crossing my legs and and giving him a soft smile. He responds to smiles of all kinds, and patience. He doesn’t like to feel rushed, which is probably why he’s distracted right now. That, or whatever it was that caused him to be late bothered him. “It’s okay,” I say gently. “Why were you late?” I settle back into my chair and check the time as Harry gets comfortable. 

He pulls his legs up to where he’s sitting criss-crossed, his favorite sitting position, one that he’s carried with him for years, ever since I first started seeing him on a weekly basis three years ago. He purses his lips, his eyes still staring at everything except me. “I had to make sure that my apartment didn’t catch on fire,” he says absentmindedly. I scrunch my eyebrows together, tilting my head, trying to catch his eye. “Why would your apartment catch on fire?” I ask lightly, chuckling a bit. Harry laughs a bit too, before taking a deep breath and finally looking at me. 

I instantly detect a vibrant intrigue in them, someone that I haven’t seen in a while. They’re usually scared eyes, eyes that are always on the lookout, eyes that are afraid the past might show up again. This is new, this intrigue, and I know that he’s going to tell me why he’s intrigued soon. I just have to lead him to it, like I have to lead him to most things. “I accidentally broke my french press, and it wouldn’t turn off,” he says, and then he dives into his story. That’s really all it takes, just a gentle little nudge and then it’s story time with Harry Styles and his therapist. And the way he tells stories, I tell him he should be a writer, but he says he’s more interested in photography. Which, with his background, makes sense. Anyway, back to his story. 

***

He always had french-pressed coffee in the morning, it was his routine. He had a routine for everything, it was just the way he coped. He got up, he had the same routine of taking a shower, brushing his teeth, doing his hair, getting dressed, staring at himself in the mirror for a time, and then making his coffee. Any change to that routine, and he’s day was just going to be stressful. He wasn’t OCD by any means, he sometimes switched up the order, but as long as everything got done, the order didn’t really matter. He wasn’t running late that morning until his french press decided to stop working. Or rather, refuse to stop working. It was battery powered, and Harry knew he could remove the batteries, but it was making a hissing noise, and every time he touched it, it burnt his fingers. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, yanking his hand away from the fourth time, pressing his stinging finger to his lips as if that could possibly help. It did though. It’s what he used to do when he was a child and his fingers were forcibly pressed to the sto—now he was going to be late. And he hated being late. He hated making his therapist wait. Harry knew that his therapist didn’t actually mind, but it made him feel bad, and he didn’t like feeling bad, so now he was in a rush. And he hated feeling rushed even more than he hated being late. It was just going to be a bad day, he had to accept that. 

He stared at his hissing, angry french press for a few seconds, before shaking his head slightly and grabbing his keys and wallet. He checked his reflection once more in the mirror—he always had to check his reflection before leaving—and opened the door to his apartment. He stepped out into the little outdoor hallway and twisted around to lock his door, and that’s when the thought hit him. What if his apartment catches fire because he left a heated electronic on? That would be very bad. He hesitated at that thought, wracking his brains to try and find a solution, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t skip his session, he couldn’t call his therapist because he hated phone calls, he didn’t know what to do. 

Luck seemed to be on his side however, and the door to his neighbor’s apartment swung open. Harry had never even seen his neighbor, let alone interacted with him, but he wasn’t incapable of talking to someone, and he was in such a rush now, he would do anything to be able to leave his apartment and get to his car. His neighbor stepped out, and Harry’s eyes widened as he took in his lilac-colored hair, his short stature, and his overall…colorfulness. That’s how Harry would describe this boy. He seemed to be about the same age as Harry, maybe a few months older, but he didn’t seem to scary. 

Harry stared at him for a moment, the words caught in his throat, and the boy—who was checking his mail—seemed to sense eyes on him, and he slowly turned around to look at Harry. A small smile spread across his cheeks, and it was a sweet smile Harry remembered, one that made him feel comfortable despite him being rushed. “Hey neighbor,” the boy said, his voice higher pitched than Harry expected. Harry blinked a few times, before returning the smile, turning the key in his lock. The boy’s smile widens in response to Harry’s smile, and he leans up against his door, turning his mail over and over in his hands. “Something I can do for you?” he asks. Harry instantly feels his face heat up, and suddenly he’s nervous again, and so he drops his eyes, looking at his hands. 

He grappled with himself before forcing himself to look at the boy again. When he did, for the second time, he noticed dark circles under the boy’s eyes. Interesting. “Actually yes,” he said quietly. “If you smell smoke coming from my apartment, can you please call the fire department?” He realized how stupid it sounded coming out of his mouth, but it was too late to recant now. The boy faltered for a moment, before bursting into giggles and nodding. “Yeah, sure thing babe,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. Harry blushed a bit more before smiling again and nodding, making to leave. “Thank you,” he said. The boy narrowed his eyes curiously towards the boy, before nodding and standing up straight again. 

“I’m Louis, by the way,” the boy called out as Harry turned away. Harry smiled a bit at that, he had always liked the name Louis. “Harry,” he replied, not turning around. He really was in a rush, no time for small talk and formal introductions.

***

“So you met someone?” I ask, sitting up straight, hoping. Hoping that he made a friend. Harry stares at me, blinking a few times, before shrugging his shoulders and dropping his eyes once again. “Not really,” he murmurs. I study him for a more minutes, before sighing and flipping over my notes, reading back on where we left on last week. I find it better not to press an issue with Harry. If it’s not super important and he doesn’t want to talk about it, then it’s best not to force him to. 

I’ve been seeing Harry for three years. He’s a classic case of PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—that stems from an abusive childhood. He’s seen therapists ever since he was old enough to drive himself to sessions, and I’m his third one, and his longest-standing one. We established a good relationship early on, a sense of trust between us, and he’s really opened up, or at least more than he ever did to his past therapists. 

He’s an incredibly smart, kind, and funny man of twenty-four years, with a wildly intricate thought process that I’ve almost got understood, but sometimes he throws a wrench into my theories and I’m back to square one. He’s unpredictable, which worries me but not too much. He’s not suicidal, he’s just sad, but I think we’re getting to where he’s not as sad. He refuses any type of medication, which I applaud him for, and deals with any PTSD episodes on his own, which is impressive but concerning. People who suffer from PTSD need more than just a therapist to talk to. They need friends, other confidants, and that’s what I’ve been trying to urge Harry to do, to make friends. 

So you can see why hearing news of him interacting with another person makes me hopeful. If he can just find one friend, one other person besides me to talk to, I think it would work wonders on his disorder. But it’s a slow process, and that’s okay. Harry hates being rushed anyways. 

 

He’s clearly distraught today. He’s biting his lip, he’s avoiding eye contact, he’s messing with his hands, and he can’t stop tapping his foot. These are all tell-tale signs for when he’s in distress, and it’s going to take a lot to get him to talk about what’s bothering him. As far as I know this date doesn’t hold any significance, this isn’t the day his father beat him almost to death, this isn’t the day his mother died or the day his sister left the household and him, this is just a normal day. So what’s bothering him? It’s something huge, something scary, based on the way he’s avoiding my eye contact. 

I just stare at him for the first fifteen minutes of the session, studying him, seeing if it’s worth it to try and coax a response out of him. I decide that it is worth it, because I know he wants to talk about it, he’s just afraid. I start by asking him a question that shouldn’t be related to what’s bothering him. At least, I hope it’s not related to it. 

“Have you spoken to Louis again? Your apartment didn’t burn down did it?” I say, keeping my voice as gentle and as casual as possible. Harry’s eyes flicker up to meet mine, before he sits up straighter, dropping his gaze and shaking his head. “No, it didn’t burn down,” he mutters, criss-crossing his legs and lining up his finger tips with each hand. I narrow my eyes, tilting my head as I try and decipher what emotions I see. Mostly fear, if I’m being completely honest. But why? 

“And yeah, I talked to Louis again,” he says, and I’m not expecting him to continue on his own, but I’m very glad when he does. It’s a rarity, and it means he has a story to tell. I bend my lips down in a knowing expression and sit down my clipboard. “What about?” I lead him to it. He takes a deep breath, before lifting his eyes to meet mine once again. “About my father being back in town,” he deadpans, and I manage to keep my face straight but inside I’m instantly concerned for him. His father is back in town. His abusive father who sent him to the hospital three times is in LA. Now I understand why he’s so upset. But I’m also intrigued. He usually calls me as soon as his father returns, but he didn’t this time. Or at least, he didn’t call multiple times. I do have one missed call from him, but I only return his calls if I get two in a row—a rule he demanded I follow, and so I paid it no attention. 

He talked to another person about his father. A person he barely knows. Why? I guess I’m about to find out. 

*** 

It was late at night, and Harry had only just gotten the news that his father was back in town—by way of a Facebook status update, and he didn’t know what to do. Knowing that his father was in town was like a nightmare come to life, he hated his father. He was terrified of him, he blamed him for all of his subsequent mental problems, and to know that he was inhabiting the same city as him was enough to send him over the edge. He had night terrors anyway, but they were about to get a lot worse. So worse that he was afraid to sleep. He kept his doors and windows locked, the lights off, the gun that he purchased last year handy, he was that scared. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d actually use the gun on his father were he to show up—which is highly unlikely because he doesn’t have Harry’s address as far as Harry knows—but it made him feel a bit better so he kept it. 

This particular night, however, after shutting himself in apartment for three days, he couldn’t stand it anymore. It was just after sunset, and he just wanted some fresh air. His apartment was stuffy and suffocating, and so when he stepped outside he breathed in the air deeply, taking big gulps. He was still beyond terrified, so much so that he had carried a butter knife out with him, knowing full well that it would do nothing as a means of defense, but it made him feel better, so he took it. 

He walked the short distance to the little courtyard that sits in the middle of his apartment complex, and collapses in a seat next to a merrily bubbling fountain that sounds too cheery for Harry’s mood but does help relax him a bit. He sat down, and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to rationalize his thoughts. It’s not an easy feat, and it’s barely working, but at least he’s cooling down a bit. 

Meanwhile, a ways behind him, down the hall, his next door neighbor opens his door and stumbles out, covering his mouth as he coughs and slams his door. Harry jumps forward, gripping his butter knife so tightly it cuts into his palm, and he turns around, eyes wide and jaw locked in terror as he pictures his father coming at him. It takes him a minute to register that it’s just his neighbor, the one with the crazy lilac-colored hair. He stumbled into the courtyard, coming to a stop right in front of Harry. 

He smiled a bit, a cute, innocent little smile. “What brings the recluse out into the courtyard?” he asked, sniffing. Harry looked him up and down, and tried to figure out what exactly it was that was off about him. He couldn’t figure it out entirely, but he never had been good at reading people, so he just assumed that he was overthinking things, looking for a reason to distrust this boy. To answer Louis' question, Harry shrugged his shoulders, turning back around in his seat. “No reason,” he muttered, and Louis chuckled at that, moving around to fall into the seat across from Harry. 

Harry stared at the boy, feeling an unfamiliar stirring in his stomach as they made eye contact, and he wondered what Louis' story was. How long they had been neighbors, how old he was, where he was from originally. This was also unusual for Harry, he usually didn’t care enough about a person to wonder what they’re backstory was. He wondered why Louis was different. He was thinking that he might just have to get to know him a bit better. Like his therapist said, it was good for him to create bonds outside of the two of them. Maybe Louis could be that bond. 

Then again, maybe not. As Harry’s eyes drifted, he saw what was off-putting about Louis. Besides the nose sniffing—which should’ve been the first red flag—Harry could make out the little pinpricks on the inside of Louis' elbow. 

Pinpricks. Or needle pricks. Louis was a drug addict. 

 

Louis was observant, that’s the first thing that Harry picked up on. He didn’t mean to stare at the track marks, or the bruises, his curiosity just naturally caused his eyes to drift, and Louis wasn’t oblivious to it. Harry wasn’t sure how long he was actually staring, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, because soon, Louis was chuckling, snapping his fingers in Harry’s face, startling Harry and causing him to flinch back against his metal chair, the pathetic butter knife clattering to the ground. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Louis said, and Harry felt his eyes go wide as orbs as he stuttered and tried to find a response. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, his eyes falling to the ground. He studied the cracks the stone, wondering just how he could get himself out of this situation. Because this was exactly the kind of situation he tried to avoid. An awkward situation, with a lot of silence and lot of tension, and a lot of nerves. It was the type of setting that almost triggered Harry. Because it was so similar to the atmosphere that surrounded him right before his dad beat him. A deadly silence, thick with unspoken words, and a cold chill. In fact, as Harry sat there, with Louis' eyes on him, he began to feel the tell-tale signs of a panic attack, and he was about to up and leave when Louis spoke again. And something about his voice kept Harry grounded. Something about his voice pulled Harry out of his own head and distracted him. 

He had never met anyone who could do that to him. 

“You can ask questions, you know,” Louis said, tapping his index finger on top of Harry’s hand. Harry snapped his head up, afraid he looked terrified. He lifted his head and he instantly made eye contact with Louis' eyes, and he saw that they were steady, they were calm and collected and serene almost. Peaceful, was the word Harry was looking for. They were peaceful, but—if Harry looked closely—he could see that same troubled haze in his eyes that he too had. But that peace, it pulled Harry in, it wrapped him up in a warm blanket and told him everything would be okay. Why did Louis have that inner peace that Harry was so desperately searching for? How did he get it? 

Those are the questions that Harry wanted to ask, but he knew that those were not appropriate questions for an introductory conversation, so he stuck to the most basic of questions. He blinked a few times, sitting back up straight and swallowing, darting his eyes away from Louis', unsure once again of how long he’d been staring. He took a deep breath, before speaking. 

“I have PTSD,” he said, and he immediately clapped his hands over his mouth because that was exactly the wrong type of thing to say, and it wasn’t even a question, it was a statement, a statement that didn’t even made sense. He had no reason to announce to this boy, this stranger, that he had a mental disorder. It’s not like he went around announcing it wherever he went, it just was something that happened involuntarily. He wasn’t even thinking when he said it. And yet, he said it. Why did he say it? That was a good question. Apparently Harry didn’t know the difference. 

He felt the color drain from his face as he bit down so hard on his lip he tasted blood. He wrapped his fingers around the metal arms of the chair so tightly it was going to leave bruises, and he felt his blood run like ice water around his heart as he waited for Louis' response to that entirely inappropriate statement. He hesitantly looked back up, telling himself that he shouldn’t be afraid of Louis, that Louis wasn't his father. He wouldn’t hurt him. As far as Harry knew. 

When he did look up, he saw that same peaceful gaze in Louis' eyes, this time accompanied by a soft smile. He was leaning into Harry, and his eyes were sparkling almost, bright and intrigued. He was very…present. That wasn’t something Harry was used to. He didn’t know if he liked it or not. “I have an addiction to heroin,” he replied, and then he stuck out his hand. 

Harry had to admit, this whole exchange was wildly confusing, going in an entirely different direction then he ever expected it to go, but he couldn’t say he didn’t mind it. It was already turning into the most eventful thing of this week, and he was pleasantly surprised at Louis' response. He expected some sort of sympathy—or worse, pity—but instead he got to know the most personal details on a person he had only just met that morning. He didn’t even know Louis' last name, but he knew the thing that plagued him. And Louis knew what plagued Harry. 

Harry couldn’t help but slightly smile as he reached out and shook Louis' warm, soft hand. Louis laughed out loud as he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. Harry looked away then, focusing in on the fountain, and he gnawed on his bottom lip as he tried to figure out what to say next. He figured if he waited long enough that Louis would initiate conversation, but he liked having control over a situation, no matter who it was with, so he mustered up some courage and actually asked a question this time. 

“What made you start using?” he asked, and while he internally flinched at how personal the question was, he for some reason felt like all the cards were being laid out now, and that the question probably would be answered. Louis answered quickly, his voice thoughtful. Harry peered over at him, momentarily distracted as the moonlight reflected off of Louis' lilac hair, but he was quick to refocus on the titular character. 

“Boredom,” he said, and Harry for a moment believed he was being serious until he saw Louis wiggle his eyebrows, a little lopsided smile decorating his face. Harry chuckled back as Louis ran a hand through his hair. “And depression,” he added, his voice much more solemn and melancholy, yet still nonchalant. Harry felt his own smile fade as he nodded sympathetically. Louis looked over at him through his lashes, and raised his eyebrows. “What caused your PTSD, if you don’t mind me asking?” he said. 

Harry didn’t mind that he asked. Plenty of people asked him, those who knew he even had the disorder in the first place, which, he had to admit, weren’t many. So maybe not that many people asked him. Regardless, his therapist had at least done a good job preparing him for how to answer such a heavy, possibly triggering question. And Louis had certainly opened up to him, Harry only owed it to repay the favor. It was a harmless question, after all, only fueled by curiosity. Because Louis couldn’t possibly be motivated by malevolence, or at least, Harry didn’t hope so. 

“Abusive father, who happens to be back in town,” he said, trying to sound as casual and nonchalant as Louis, but failing as his voice broke slightly. He instantly felt the tears prick into his eyes, but he was quick to blink them away and he was proud of himself for maintaining eye contact with Louis as he spoke. “That’s why I’m out here, I needed to cool down,” he rambled, not knowing why he was just spilling his guts to this poor boy. He watched as he saw pity cloud in Louis' eyes, only to be quickly replaced with some sort of admiration, and Louis nodded, grinning and reaching out to gently pat Harry’s shoulder. 

“So we’re both messed up,” he said. “We’ll be great friends,” Harry laughed at that, but it was a forced laugh this time, and he didn’t find anything about it funny. In fact, that little comment sent him spiraling back down into his own mind, that depthless black pool, and he suddenly was feeling guilty. Because Louis mentioned friends, and Harry didn’t do friends. It was just too difficult, he was too much to handle, he didn’t want to burden someone with what he was dealing with. Flashbacks, panic attacks, overall depression, it was hardly bearable for him, let alone an outside force. 

Even though his therapist had encouraged him to create bonds with people, Harry didn’t know if a drug addict was exactly what they had in mind. And besides, Harry didn’t want to subject Louis to being friends with him. 

“Friends,” he muttered, laughing humorlessly at the word. His eyes were trained on his upturned palm, contemplating nothing in particular, just how to push Louis away. “I’m not very good at the friends thing,” He looked over at Louis, and was surprised to see that he wasn’t smiling. His eyebrows were knit together as he pursed his lips and tapped his fingers on his chin. Harry wondered what exactly was going through his head. He was so hard to read. Harry didn’t know if he liked that or not. 

“I mean, I’m not great at the friends thing either,” he said, and then he stood up, flashing a smile towards Harry. Harry followed him with his eyes as he walked past the chair and turned around his, a strangely mischievous look on his face. “Maybe we’ll cancel each other out,” he whispered, and then he winked, before spinning on his heel and walking back to his apartment. 

***

So. He’s friends with a drug addict. Not the ideal person, but I can’t complain. At least it’s someone. And he clearly has intentions to talk to him again which is a very good sign, given Harry’s condition. I let the silence settle before I sit down my notes and fold my hands in my lap. Harry isn’t looking at me, he’s chewing on his bottom lip and wringing his hands together again, and I know he’s thinking about his father, now that the distraction of story-telling is vanished. 

“Do you want me to call Gemma, have her come and stay with you until your father leaves?” I ask, and I’m hoping he’ll say no. I’m hoping he’ll say that he can just go to this Louis kid if he’s feeling unsafe, but I have to put the option out there for him, if he needs it. After all, I only know what Harry has told me. He’s not a liar, but he has kept things from me before, so I just have to cover all my bases. Make sure he knows that he’s protected, no matter what. 

I wait for his answer, and the longer I wait, the more hopeful I become, because if he did want Gemma, he wouldn’t be hesitating. He’s debating with him self, and that’s good. If he can latch onto a new person, create that bond, find a support system, it would work wonders on his PTSD. Even it that person did happen to be a drug addict. As long as Harry doesn’t start using, there should be no problem. And I honestly don’t think he would ever turn to drugs. That’s what his father did, and Harry’s entire life goal was to be as unlike his father as possible. That, and from the way Harry describes Louis, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person to force drugs onto another person. That being said, I make a note to keep an eye on Harry, looking out for addictive behavior for a while. 

As I’m musing over these things, I almost miss his answer. But thankfully, I don’t. And I can’t help but smile at the answer. 

“No, I don’t need Gemma,” 

Which means that he’s starting to lean on Louis. 

 

We’re outside today. It’s rainy, and we’re sitting underneath umbrellas and we’re shivering but Harry insisted on sitting outside because he said that rain helped distract him from himself. I asked him at the beginning of the hour why he needed the rain to distract him and he told me that he had an episode over the week. He usually doesn’t tell me when he’s had an episode, he usually keeps that to himself, but for some reason he told me today, and I think I know the reason why. It’s his new friend, Louis. He won’t admit that, but I can tell. Louis must’ve talked him into telling me. Which meant that Harry told him that I existed. Which was significant progress. 

Harry’s staring up at his umbrella, focusing on the droplets as he talks to me. He’s pretty open today, willing to ramble, and that’s good. I like hearing him talk, it’s good that he’s vocalizing his thoughts, sharing them. I’d love to give myself all the credit, but I know it’s because of his new friend. His new friend is giving him the confidence to be more self-confident. I may not know much about this kid past his history of drug abuse and his name, but hopefully, with a little nudge, I can get Harry to drift the conversation away from his daily activities, and start talking about what I really want to hear. 

“Harry,” I say, interrupting a particularly riveting story of a bird and a bouquet of flowers. Harry stops talking immediately, face flushing as he realizes what kind of tangent he’s gone off on. I give him a warm smile, which he halfway returns, clutching his umbrella tighter. “Can we talk about your episode?” I prompt. When I say he told me about an episode I mean just that, he just told me. He didn’t elaborate, he didn’t expand on it, and that’s exactly what I need him to do. I need to know why he had an episode so that I can try and figure out what steps I need to give him to feel better. I know how bad his episodes can be. 

Harry bites his lip, lowering his gaze and nodding, uncrossing his legs and tapping his feet on the cobblestone. I hold my umbrella tighter as a large gust of wind blows across us. “It was because of my father being in town,” Harry begins, sighing and running a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes momentarily, and I lean over, placing a hand on his knee and giving it a comforting pat. He usually doesn’t respond to physical touch, but I find it never hurts to feel a physical expression of support. His eyes flicker up to me, especially green against all this grey, and I flash him another smile as I sit back up straight. 

“He’s out of town now, though, right?” I ask, and Harry nods, messing with the hem of shirt. A bout of silence follows, but I know that Harry is just organizing his thoughts, something that I admire about him. He never says anything without thinking about it first, a quality that I wished more people had. He takes a deep breath, before diving into his story. And it’s an intriguing one. 

 

***

After that night in the courtyard, Harry didn’t think that he would ever interact with Louis again. He thought it was just a one time thing, something that Louis would pretend had never happened, and while Harry was perfectly fine to just forget about it, he knew that he wouldn’t for some reason. Because Louis, even in that brief instance, made him feel not so alone in the world, he made him feel a bit more confident, and most importantly, distracted Harry from all those dark thoughts. 

He knew that he needed a person like that. It was what his therapist had told him to do for ages, go find a friend. Someone to talk to outside of the office, outside of their sessions. Harry had never paid that any attention. He didn’t need friends, he had his siblings and he had his therapist, and he had his writings to keep him company. He wasn’t dead, that was something, so why did he need a friend to burden? Why did he need someone to bitch and whine to? But now, now that he’s found someone he feels strangely comfortable around, he isn’t sure if he wants to let that go. 

The morning after that night in the courtyard, Harry was almost looking for an excuse to go knock on Louis' door, anything to see if Louis too was willing to actually be his friend. For all Harry knew, Louis could have been high that night, and everything he said was a lie, fueled by the heroin. And the thing was, that was a real possibility. Louis was a drug addict, he said so himself, it was the one thing that Harry could be positive of. And that’s another reason that made him willing to forget the exchange ever happened. 

He knew that he shouldn’t be friends with a drug addict. It was the absolute worst situation, and yet, the addiction didn’t define Louis. Harry didn’t think of him in a judgmental context, he didn’t pity him or hate him or judge him for using drugs, because he understood. He understood why someone would turn to them. And Harry was observant. He could tell just by that short conversation that Louis needed a friend, too. Someone who understood that darkness. He wanted to be that for Louis. 

He wanted to be friends. 

They didn’t talk the day after. But they did talk the second day. Harry thought himself pathetic for thinking about Louis so much the previous day and that night, but he couldn’t help himself. He was desperate for not only companionship, but also for answers to questions about Louis. Simple questions, such as what was his favorite color? Where was he from? What did he do for a living? Who was he? Innocent questions, questions that you ask a friend. They bubbled on Harry’s lips, begging for an answer, and Harry had to admit, even they were a nice distraction. Louis was helping him, without even knowing it. 

They happened to go to their P.O. boxes at the same time, and Harry instantly felt his heart flutter with nerves as he saw that familiar head of lilac hair at the row of boxes. Seeing as Harry shared a wall with Louis, their boxes were right next to each other, so he had to get quite close to reach his. As he approached, he must have been making a lot of noise, because Louis turned around before Harry even walked up the steps to the platform. 

“Oh look, it’s my favorite little freak,” he greeted, giving Harry a wink as he chuckled at his own joke. Harry felt his face heat up, but reminded himself to smile, which he did, walking up to his own box. Louis' eyes followed him up, and Harry noticed their sparkle even through his sunglasses. “How are you?” he asked, feeling absolutely foolish, but he never was good at starting conversations. Louis laughed, stepping back and revealing two big bags of mail that Harry hadn’t even noticed before. “I’m exhausted,” he said, gesturing to the bags. 

Harry’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets as he saw the amount of mail that Louis received. “Why do you have so much mail?” he asked, the question sounding so dumb as he said it. Louis laughed, running a hand through his hair. It was a nervous little laugh, one that reminded Harry that Louis wasn’t as confident as he appeared to be, and it humbled him a little. “It’s actually from my viewers,” he explained. Harry blinked a few time, confusion crossing his features. He crinkled his eyebrows together as he unlocked his P.O. box and took out the three little items, sad compared to Louis' piles and piles of mail. “Viewers?” Harry pressed, and Louis blushed, something that actually complimented his features unlike Harry. He bit his bottom lip as he reached down and picked up one of the bags, thrusting it in Harry’s direction. Harry stared at it for a minute before realizing that he was supposed to take it, which he did. 

It weighed at least ten pounds and he couldn’t help the little ‘oof’ that exited his mouth as he almost dropped it. Louis lifted the second one up and over his shoulder, and the two walked back together toward the apartment complex. “I run a little YouTube channel,” he informed, and Harry raised his eyebrows, the answer certainly not what he expected. He obviously knew what YouTube was, but he didn’t know that you could get so big that people sent you stuff. Was this what Louis did for his living? If so, Harry had to admit, that was really fucking cool. “A little YouTube channel?” Harry repeated back, questioning it. Louis laughed, adjusting his grip on the bag. 

“It’s modest, okay,” he said, and then they arrived at the apartment next to Harry’s. Harry dropped the bag, and stepped back, standing near his door, assuming that their little meeting was over. He assumed wrong, as Louis raised his eyebrows, kicking open his door and pointing inside. “I need someone to help me unload all of this,” he said, and Harry was surprised at the offer, but somewhat excited. Louis smiled at him as he shuffled forward, and Harry returned the smile, and this time, it wasn’t forced. 

He stepped inside Louis' apartment, and was instantly intrigued by everything in it. He looked all around him, sitting the bag down where Louis sat his, and for some reason he was surprised to see that the apartment wasn’t what he expected it to be. He expected it to be musty, hazy, littered with used needles and trash, curtains dusty and closed, darkness shrouding every corner. That was not Louis' apartment. 

Louis' apartment was bright and inviting, clean and organized, no traces of any drugs anywhere whatsoever. He even had a few candles burning softly near his window, and it smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, two of Harry’s favorite scents. “Not what you expected, huh?” Louis said, reminding Harry he wasn't alone. Harry flinched embarrassingly, a by-product of having been abused half his life, and he turned around, laughing nervously. Louis stared sympathetically back at him, stepping forward and putting his hands on his hips. “Just because I’m a drug addict, doesn’t mean I have to live like one, Haz,” he said, and the slight nickname made Harry’s heart flutter once again. 

Nobody had ever called him by a nickname. 

Harry must’ve stared extra long that time, because Louis went so far as to snap his fingers in front of Harry’s eyes, chuckling softly. “Harry? Earth to Harry,” he teased, reaching up and ruffling Harry’s hair. While the contact was completely harmless, Harry couldn’t help but reactively flinch back, instantly lifting his hand to fix his hair. Louis' eyes immediately widened, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but Harry cut him off, holding up a hand and giving him a reassuring smile. “You’re fine, I’m just not used to it,” he said, and while Louis smiled in relief, Harry could still see a bit of guilt in his eyes, so he did his best to distract Louis from it. What a role reversal. 

“How many subscribers do you have?” Harry asked, veering away from the awkward tension he created. Louis flushed again, sitting down his bag of mail and chewing on his lower lip, as if he were ashamed of his answer. Harry crinkled his eyebrows in curiosity, stepping forward a bit. He offered up a supportive smile to Louis, and though it felt weird on his face, it must have worked on Louis, because he returned it and gave Harry an answer. 

“A little under two million,” he said, and Harry felt his eyes pop out of his sockets as the weight of that hit him. Louis was famous. Internet famous, of course, but still. It’s no wonder he didn’t have a job, it’s no wonder he had so much mail. It was all fan mail. Harry’s eyes dropped to it as he processed the fact that his next door neighbor was a YouTube sensation. Louis was waiting for Harry to say something, Harry knew that, he just didn’t know what to say. He was thoroughly impressed and a little bit intimidated to say the least, but as he looked at Louis, he realized that he wasn’t looking at him any differently than before he knew. 

Louis was a humbling person, you’d never know of his success just by looking at him, and he didn’t exude any arrogance, and he still made Harry feel safe and protected for some reason. So Harry kept it simple. “That’s amazing, congratulations,” he said, and Louis chuckled, his laughter contagious. Harry himself laughed a bit too as Louis moved to sit down on the couch, patting the space next to him. Harry was a bit apprehensive, but he wanted to sit down next to Louis, so he did. Louis smiled, pulling the first bag of mail towards them. 

“You’re going to help me open this mail,” he explained, wiggling his eyebrows. Harry blinked a bit, before nodding, fluttery nerves surrounding his heart. “Oh, yeah, um, okay,” he stuttered, and Louis grinned, before jumping up and racing down the hallway. He was gone less than a second before he returned with a tripod and a camera, and Harry’s eyes widened as he opened his mouth to protest, lifting his hands up. “Oh, no, Louis, I can’t do a video with you—,” he started to say, but Louis cut him off. “Shush, yes you can, and you will, I need your help,” he said, giving Harry a pointed look. 

Harry hesitated, but he decided that making a video could probably be fun, so he exhaled slowly, softly smiling and nodding. Louis winked at him as he set up his camera and his lights, Harry watching the process in amazement. Louis really knew what he was doing, and despite the fact that Harry was about to be introduced to an audience of millions, it didn’t freak him out. It actually excited him. Harry had never had this exposure before. He had never had a friend like Louis before. 

“Wait!” he suddenly cried out, his eyes widening in distress as he looked up at Louis. Louis stopped what he was doing to gaze at Harry. “I’m not sure if I look good enough for the camera,” Harry said, lifting a hand to touch his hair. Louis stared at Harry a moment, before rolling his eyes, a smirk on his face. “You look hot, get over yourself,” he said casually, before turning the camera on and returning to sit down next to Harry. Harry didn’t have time to react to the not-so-subtle compliment because Louis jumped right into the video, and Harry had to try and not look nervous or awkward, a feat found not to be so difficult because of Louis' steady presence. 

After the video was finished filming, Harry watched in fascination as Louis managed to edit two hours worth of footage down to fifteen minutes, working his magic cutting and pasting and trimming, using programs that Harry recognized but had never used with still photography before. The whole time they sat next to each other, hips touching, faces mere inches apart, the closest Harry had ever been to another human being in a long time. And he felt not one ounce of fear. He had known Louis for less than a week, and yet here they were, spending the entire day together. 

Harry knew it wasn’t a good idea to fall so easily into friendship with someone that he barely knew, he knew that he shouldn’t trust Louis the way he already did, but he was so desperate for companionship that he just didn’t question it. He just let himself enjoy the fact that he was making a new friend. And Louis seemed to trust him, too. He had confided his biggest secret to Harry after all, that wasn’t something insignificant. Not at all. 

“This clip needs to be color-corrected,” Harry pointed out, gesturing to the screen, where the white was off-balance. Louis turned to look at Harry, and when he did, his eyes were very close up, and Harry could see the specks of grey mixed in with the blue, and it was beautiful. “Color correct?” he asked, curiosity sparkling in his irises. Harry swallowed before nodding, turning to look at the screen, putting his fingers on the track pad as he explained it to Louis. “Yeah, the whites aren’t balanced, let me show you how to fix it,” he said, and he forced himself not to look at Louis, who was still staring at Harry rather than the screen. 

“See?” he asked, and Louis finally turned his head away, squinting his eyes as he leaned into the screen. “Oh, that looks much better, how did you know to do that?” he asked as the two sat back up. Harry shrugged his shoulders as he looked down, messing with his hands. “I do photography,” he mumbled. He heard Louis gasp, and then felt hands on top of his as Louis squealed, gripping his hands tightly. A spike of fear went through Harry’s spine, but as soon as he looked up and saw Louis' expression, it disappeared, and he didn't mind the hand-holding. 

“You’re a photographer?!” Louis exclaimed. Harry blushed, laughing a bit as he nodded. “You’re officially my personal photographer,” he added. Harry laughed louder at that, throwing his head back as he nodded. “Okay, sure,” he said. Louis smiled wider, before dropping Harry’s hands and pulling him into a hug. Harry instantly stiffens, his breath catching in his throat as the feeling of being trapped envelopes him at full force. He felt his blush be replaced by an icy coldness, but thankfully, Louis realized his mistake immediately, and pulled back, a look of extreme guilt on his face. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry, I keep forgetting, and I shouldn’t, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, his words spilling out like a waterfall. Harry blinked a few times as his heart rate returned to normal and he remembered he wasn’t in any danger, that Louis was just trying to show his appreciation towards Harry. And Harry felt bad for making Louis feel bad, because a hug shouldn’t be a trigger. Harry could tell that Louis was a very physically affectionate person, and if he was going to be his friend, he was going have to learn to accept that. 

And so, as Louis searched Harry’s eyes for any sign of distress, Harry took a deep breath, and smiled, reaching forward and pulling Louis into a hug. He’ll admit, it felt awkward wrapping his arms around someone, it felt weird to actually voluntarily put himself in this position, but he also had to admit, it felt nice when his mind wasn’t being attacked with bad memories. It felt nice to feel a person’s warmth, to feel secure, strong arms wrapped around him, to feel Louis' heartbeat against his own, it was a sensation he wasn’t used to. Not used to at all. And it calmed him, he found. It calmed him, and it distracted him. 

They spent the rest of that day together, and the day after that, and the day after that. By the fourth day they had made about as much progress as a pair of friends seeing each other an hour a day for three weeks. They knew the harmless details of each other’s lives, such as each other’s favorite colors and foods, their pet peeves, and their favorite subjects in school. They had left the heavy conversations for later, some unidentified time, and both were okay with that. Harry loved every minute spent with Louis, no matter what it was they were doing, whether they were getting lunch or taking silly pictures or sharing music with each other, Louis just understood and got him, and he distracted him, and Harry needed that. 

It was nearing the end of one of the best weeks of Harry’s life in a long time when the inevitable had to happen. It had to all come crashing down. Harry had been ignoring that little voice in his head saying that something bad was going to happen because of all this good, and he regretted it. He should’ve been more aware, more on the lookout, but he was distracted. And he wanted to be distracted. So in the end, it couldn’t have been avoided. It’s just what happened. But really, it’s what happened after that impacted Harry so much. 

It was a simple comment on Facebook. That’s all it was. He and Louis were scrolling through comments on the mail-opening video, Harry still in amazement at the huge outpouring of compliments his way, giving him such a rush of confidence he didn’t know what to think, and Louis got a kick out of seeing Harry’s said amazement, and he decided to show him just how extensive his fanbase was by posting the video link to Facebook as well. 

As they were scrolling through the comments, Harry’s eyes landed on one that appeared harmless, maybe a bit weird, but not threatening in the slightest. It was a comment that said ‘there’s my son’, and Harry didn’t think anything past it being weird until he saw the name and picture attached to the comment, and that’s when his entire world came crashing down. 

He felt his insides freeze up as he instantly sits up, scrambling backwards until his back hit the wall, his heart rate already erratic, his breathing uneven, his hand pressed against his chest as invisible knives of anxiety stabbed at him. It was like someone had turned out the lights and taken away Harry’s ability to breathe. It was like the blankets he had been hiding under had been ripped away and he was now exposed to the monsters of the world. 

Louis turned to face Harry, worry lacing his features as he closed the laptop. “Harry? What’s wrong?” he asked tentatively, trying to keep the concern from seeping into his voice. Harry struggled to form words as his entire being shook with fear, his teeth chattering as he lifted a hand to point at the laptop, his finger shaking. “My father commented on the video,” he whispered, barely audible. He felt the tears prick into his eyes, and he hated that something so mundane could reduce him to such helplessness, but the thought of his father knowing where he was was enough to send him over the edge. 

Louis hesitated as he realized what was happening. He bit his lip, before nodding softly to himself and moving to sit in front of Harry, on his knees, his face steady and his eyes soft. Harry looked up at Louis, looking like a terrified puppy, tears leaving tracks down his cheeks as he trembled with fright. “Harry, it’s going to be okay,” Louis said slowly, moving ever so closer. Harry’s green eyes pierced Louis', not believing a single word being said. “He knows where I am, Louis,” he said, his voice hushed and forced. “He’s going to find me,” He let out a sob at that, before burying his face in his hands and pulling his knees up to his chest as he wept. 

Harry couldn’t see Louis, but he could feel him as he moved to sit next beside Harry instead of in front of him, and despite everything he was feeling, he felt a bit better having Louis next to him. He felt Louis' arm gently settle on his shoulders, and Harry flinched a bit, but he actually liked the physical contact, it made him feel safer somehow. He even went so far as to lift his head, sniffling, and lean it on Louis' shoulders, staring at his front door as he tried to calm himself down. Louis' hand rubbed comforting lines into Harry’s shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was steady. 

“He’s not going to find you, Harry, I’m very good at keeping my location a secret,” he said, and Harry clung to those words, they were his lifeline, they were keeping him from drowning in that dark pool of dread. Harry dropped his eyes to stare at his hands, except they landed first on Louis', and he never noticed before, but he had beautiful hands. Strong hands. He felt Louis tilt his head to where it was resting on top of Harry’s, and on impulse, Harry reached out and took one of Louis' hands in his own, holding it loosely. 

“Even if he did find you, which he won’t,” Louis continued. “I wouldn’t let him hurt you,” Harry’s eyes welled up with tears at those words, but they weren’t scared tears, they were relieved tears, grateful tears, and he even managed to smile a bit, though it disappeared quickly. “My therapist told me that finding a friend would help me,” he whispered, not sure where he was going with the statement, but just letting himself speak freely, without thinking for once. He took a deep breath as he lifted his head to stare into Louis' alluring blue eyes. “I think he was right,” 

The two stared at each other for an infinitesimal amount of time, just staring, searching each other’s eyes, both their hearts fluttering with the heaviness in the room, their hands still connected, their bodies still close in that half-embrace. Harry stared in Louis' eyes, and he felt himself calming down. He felt himself recovering from an episode, quicker than he ever had before. Because he hadn’t been alone for it. Because he had finally found a friend. 

Louis broke the stare by smiling, reaching up and wiping away a stray tear from Harry’s cheek. “Next time, you have to hold me as I cry, okay?” he asked, effectively lightening the mood significantly. Harry chuckled, amazed at how easily Louis was able to pull him back to that happy reality he existed in. “Deal,” he replied.

 

***

“Holy fucking shit,” I say, almost dropping my pen. 

 

“Okay, promise me you won’t swear at the end of this story,” Harry asks, smiling as we walk down the side of the road. We’re outside because Harry is practically vibrating with restlessness, bouncy and energetic. He’s overly excited, except I wouldn’t say overly, because to see him excited is such amazing progression it makes me excited. He’s almost bursting at the seams, and I’ve never seen him smile as much as he is now. He responds well to smiles, so I happily return all of them. 

“Oh come on, can you blame me for swearing?” I reply, chuckling. Harry smiles back at me, shrugging his shoulders. “Not really,” he murmurs, ducking his head. We walk a few more yards, Harry admiring the autumn foliage surrounding the houses. His eyes shine in the sunlight, looking exceptionally green against all the reds and oranges and yellows. “So, it was my turn,” he begins suddenly. 

I crinkle my eyebrows with confusion as I turn to look at him. “Your turn?” I question, knowing what he’s trying to say, but wanting him to actually say it. Harry smiles softly to himself, a flicker of—is that admiration?—in his eyes. “Yeah, my turn,” he whispers, and then, like always, the story begins. 

***

Knock, knock, knock. Harry stood outside of Louis' door, chewing on his lower lip and popping his knuckles. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous to see Louis, they’d been friends for over a month now, they were officially friends and not acquaintances. Hell, Louis had been there for one of Harry’s episodes, they now had an unbreakable bond. Not to mention, after Harry appeared in Louis' video, both the channel and the two of them experienced a ridiculous surge in popularity. So much so that Louis had already planned out another video for them to film. 

The door opened slowly, and almost instantly Harry knew something was wrong. It had always lingered in the back of his mind, that question of when he would witness Louis' dark side, see the true motivation behind his drug use, and the effects of such usage. He guessed he was about to get his answer. And he wasn’t sure he knew what to do to help Louis. 

Louis' eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying, lines of moisture still glistening on his cheeks. His nose was red as he sniffed, and his typically beautiful blue eyes were shrouded in a foggy dusting of darkness, and Harry instantly felt his heart ache for Louis. He opened his mouth to say something as Louis turned away and walking into his living room, leaving the door open, an invitation for Harry to follow him. Harry did, shutting the door behind him and turning back to face Louis, unsure of what to say exactly. 

His eyes landed on Louis' coffee table, and his sighed when he saw the lines of heroin spaced out evenly, with a rolled up dollar bill lying carelessly next to them. Louis sniffed, reaching up to wipe his nose as he fell down next to the table, and proceeded to inhale a line right in front of Harry. Harry watched, and didn’t make any move to tell him to stop, to tell him that he was better than drugs, because Harry knew that Louis had probably heard it all and more. And Harry didn’t want to make him feel guilty. He wanted to make him feel better. 

He moved to sit down across from Louis, a sympathetic look on his face, and he waited for him to speak first. Louis lifted his head, rubbing his nose, his eyes watering with fresh tears, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair as his gaze pierced Harry’s. In that moment Harry felt so inadequate, his own problems shriveling to nothing as he looked at his broken friend. He had only thought of himself in relation to Louis, had only thought of Louis' affect on him, only thought of how Louis could benefit him, and now he realized that he didn't even think about how he affected Louis. 

Did he trigger something in Louis? Did his freak out trigger a freakout for Louis? Did Harry’s insecurities and fear of abandonment affect Louis as well? Was Harry burdening him? “Stop blaming yourself,” Louis suddenly spoke up, and when Harry looked at him—really looked at him—he saw that Louis' gaze had hardened, his glare almost accusing. Harry blinked a few times, opening his mouth to protest. “I’m not—,” he started to say, but Louis cut him off, slamming his hand down on the table, startling Harry. “Yes, you are! It’s what everyone does,” he shouted, rising and moving to stand in the doorway to his kitchen. 

Harry was a little afraid, not moving from his spot on the ground, looking up at Louis as he glared at him, tears leaving streaks down his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and that just made Louis groan and roll his eyes again, and Harry was expecting him to just turn away and ignore him, but instead he advances on Harry, falling to his knees and scooting forward, reaching up and taking Harry’s face in both of his hands, his grip a little tight but Harry was definitely paying attention. 

Now, Louis' eyes were desperate, pleading almost, and Harry carefully hung on to every word, and despite his racing heart, he managed to hear everything. “Do not blame yourself, Harry, for my mistakes, do you understand me?” Louis said, his eyes searching Harry’s. Harry swallowed, nodding, his own hands resting uselessly on his lap. “My addiction is not your fault, its mine, and mine alone, and if this isn’t a good place for you to be, I understand if you want to leave,” he continued. At the word ‘leave’ Harry felt his heart contract and his body go cold at the thought of not having Louis as a friend anymore. 

Without realizing, Harry moved his hands to rest on Louis' knees, and he hardens his own gaze as well. “Louis, I’m your friend, I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, and Louis' eyes welled with more tears as he still held Harry’s face. His lower lip trembled as he spoke the next time. “This is going to happen again,” he whispered, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, rubbing comforting circles on Louis' kneecaps. “And I’ll be here every time,” he said, and was relieved when he saw Louis laugh softly, a bit of relief flashing across his features. His gaze hardened again as he tightened his grip on Harry’s face once again. “I’ll be there for you too,” he said, and Harry felt his heart flutter, and all he could do was nod. 

To have that reassurance, that he would have someone to go to when he was feeling low, it was incomparable to any type of comfort he had ever felt. Even in Louis' moment of need, he reminded Harry that he still had him. If that didn’t mark a best friend, Harry didn’t know what did. Louis removed his hands from Harry’s face, and Harry flinched a bit at the loss of contact, watching as Louis fell back to sit on his haunches, rubbing his eyes as he took deep breaths in and out. “It’s just so hard sometimes,” he murmured, and Harry narrowed his eyes, moving forward just a bit. 

Louis dropped his head, burying it in both of his hands, and Harry was surprised when he heard him weeping, actual noises of misery exiting his mouth, his body shaking with the weight of his tears. It hurt Harry to see him in such a state, and he knew exactly when he was feeling, because Harry had been there multiple times. That feeling of hopelessness, it can be suffocating, it can be one of the worst feelings in the world, and so Harry reached out, placing his hand on Louis' shoulder first, and then realizing that that wasn’t enough. Louis was a physical person, he responded more to touch than Harry did, and even though Harry wasn’t great at giving hugs or embraces, and even though he didn’t prefer it, he knew that it would help Louis, and so he pushed his own feelings aside and moved to sit next to Louis, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and letting Louis rest his head on his shoulder, an ironic role reversal from when Harry had his episode. 

Harry may not have preferred physical forms of affection before, but sitting there with Louis, being in the position of actually providing the comfort, it was a feeling that he could get used to. Louis cried into his shoulder, and Harry rubbed his hand up and down Louis' arm, just hoping that his steady presence was going to be enough to comfort him. He felt the familiar tendrils of his own sadness poking at him, but he had to keep himself composed, because this was Louis' time, his time to cry and feel and lean on Harry. 

Eventually, about ten minutes later, Louis' sobs quieted to gentle sniffles, his head still leaning on Harry’s shoulder, his breathing evening out. His weight became heavier as Harry realized that he was falling asleep, most likely because of the drugs and the emotional exhaustion. However, as much as Harry wouldn’t have minded sitting on the floor while Louis slept against him, he knew that it would be better if he somehow got Louis to his bed. And so he gently looped his arm under Louis', and lifted him, the two of them standing up, Louis moaning as he turned his face into Harry’s neck and wrapped his arms tightly around his torso. 

Harry strained at the contact, but just focused on walking Louis to his bedroom and gently laying him down on his bed. Once he was securely tucked in on his side—a tip that he remembered after watching a documentary once—Harry turned off the lights and went back out into the living room. He wasn’t sure what exactly to do next, he knew that it was probably best if he just left, but he knew that if it were him who was in need, he’d want Louis to stay with him, and so he was going to stay. Of course he was going to stay, it’s what any friend would do. 

He pursed his lips as he stood awkwardly in Louis' living room, ignoring the drugs still strewn on the coffee table, ignoring the used syringes and lighters and spoons, just ignoring it all. It wasn’t that late into the evening, but Harry felt that he could probably fall asleep if he laid down, so he did, on Louis' couch, tucking the pillow under his head and settling his hands on his chest, lacing his fingers together. He took a deep breath, reminded himself that he wasn’t alone in this house, and closed his eyes. 

It was about three hours later when he came too, covered in a cold sweat, shivering, terror paralyzing his body to the point where it was almost difficult to breathe. This was a common occurrence, and Harry knew that the best thing to do was just wait it out, sit through it until he could move again, but that didn’t mean the fear was any less terrible or suppressive, and he still struggled to breathe, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he tried to get oxygen to his lungs. 

Eventually the fear receded and all that was left behind was that cold sweat, and Harry was able to sit up, sucking down large gulps of air as he ran a hand through his damp hair and shook his head to clear up his vision. His heart was racing, he could hear it, and he pressed a hand against it. He almost had another panic attack when he didn’t at first recognize where he was, his eyes widening as his head snapped left and right, before he remembered he was at Louis', and he relaxed, falling back against the couch and rubbing his eyes, looking up at the ceiling and trying to calm himself down.

After getting up to get a glass of water, Harry sat down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, and he found himself staring at the lines of heroin on the glass of the coffee table. Perfectly straight, white lines of a visually harmless substance that has sent so many into that spiraling pit of addiction, that supposedly causes one to feel a euphoria unlike any other, a euphoria so desirable the user was willing to throw away their life for it. They’d do anything, sacrifice anything, to find that high. That bliss. Harry wondered what it felt like. 

He had seen Louis use, he just closed one side of his nose while sniffing hard with the other, it couldn’t be that hard, could it? And it was just one line, Harry persuaded himself. It wouldn’t hurt, not just one line, just to see what it was all about, just to see why Louis was so dependent on it. And maybe it would help Harry, maybe it would help keep him calm, maybe it would even stop the night terrors. And if it did that, then it couldn’t be all bad could it? 

These were the thoughts that went through Harry’s head as he stared at the lines of drugs, as he found himself leaning closer and closer, his mouth almost watering as he talked himself into it. He was mere centimeters away from the surface of the table, close enough to where he could begin to see individual grains of the stuff, when a voice spoke up. 

“Don’t you even fucking dare, Harry,” Louis said, emerging out of his bedroom, eyes illuminating in the darkness. Harry instantly jerked up and scrambled back, his hands flying up to protect his face, an action left over from years of his father entering his bedroom late at night. His pupils dilated in fear as his heart beat so fast he was afraid he might pass out, and even when he realized it was Louis and that initial fear was swept away with relief, that startled feeling was still left behind, and as he lowered his arms, he couldn’t help but appear to look like a terrified puppy. 

Louis stood in the middle of the living room, his arms crossed, an almost disappointed look on his face. Except, Harry didn’t feel as if the look was directed towards him, even though his intense feeling of guilt said otherwise. It was almost like Louis was disappointed in himself, and Harry didn’t want that. He didn’t want Louis to feel as if he had exposed Harry to drugs and had thus doomed him to an addiction like his own. “I wasn’t going to,” he said quickly, looking up at Louis, pulling his most convincing look. 

Louis stared at him a moment, before walking forward and leaning down, sweeping his hand over the table, wiping all the heroin into his palm and walking into the kitchen. “You better not,” he said, and Harry swallowed nervously as he watched Louis wash his hands and take a deep breath, gripping the sides of the counter for a minute and hanging his head, before inhaling deeply and returning to the living room, where he sat down next to Harry, facing him, a serious glimmer in his eyes. Harry felt like a child about to be reprimanded, but that quickly went away when Louis spoke, and he heard the sadness in his voice. 

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I was the one who caused you to turn to drugs,” he whispered, his voice breaking halfway through. Harry opened his mouth to reassure Louis that he wouldn’t use drugs, but Louis spoke before he could, his eyes watering. “They don’t help,” he said, his voice so soft. “They only hurt, and I don’t want them to hurt you,” Harry felt tears prick into his eyes at that, and he blinked them away, because yet again, Louis was the one comforting him, even when it was Harry who supposed to be comforting Louis. 

He quickly shook his head and took a deep breath, clearing his head of any sadness and instead reaching out and laying a hand on Louis' shoulder. “Louis, I won’t start using, I promise,” he said, his voice steady and unusually confident, surprising himself even. “But I don’t want you to feel as if drugs are the only thing you can turn to,” he continued on. Louis stared at him, his blue eyes glistening in the moonlight, throwing sparks. Lighting a fire. “Because I’m your friend, and you can always turn to me,” he added a smile at the end, and Louis snorted a bit, smiling as well and rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, we’ve crossed the line into way too sappy and it’s not even four am,” he said, laughing. Harry blushed, but joined in the laughter, dropping his hand and pulling it back to his lap, his fingers instantly twisting together. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt a shift in his and Louis' friendship, now that they had both seen each other at their lowest of lows, and he felt like he knew Louis better, and could better be there for him as well. He hoped that maybe Louis felt that shift too. 

*** 

“Okay,” I say, choosing my words carefully, because Harry said no swearing this time. Even though that’s what I really fucking want to do. Because if any part of that story is true—and I believe every part, because I know a liar when I see one, and Harry is not a liar—then it raises a lot of questions on my part. Such as, should I keep an eye out for addictive ticks, since Harry almost attempted to use drugs? Should I reach out to Louis and see if maybe therapy is an option for him, since I don’t want Harry to bear the weight of that alone? Is Harry truly happy, or is attracted to Louis' presence for a different reason? Is there potential for him to be more than friends with Louis? Would it be healthy for him to enter into a relationship with a drug addict? 

So many questions. But I can only ask one, because Harry shuts down if I ask him too many questions. So I just stick with the simplest question that would indirectly answer a lot of my others. Harry is awaiting my response anyway, a somewhat apprehensive look on his face. I smile at him first, before shoving my hands into my pockets. “Harry, I have a question for you,” I say, giving him a gentle warning. He seems a bit surprised, blinking a few times, before dropping his gaze and nodding, dragging his foot from left to right across the pavement. “What is it?” he asks. 

“Do you have feelings for Louis?” 

 

“Why are you so nervous?” Louis asks, taking his camera down off of the tripod and switching it off. I bite my lip, eyes downcast, fiddling with my fingers as I try and form an answer. The thing is though, if I answer his question, it’s going to start up a conversation that I’m not sure I want to have with Louis. Because to be completely honest, I’m not nervous to go to my therapy session, I’m nervous do exactly what my therapist told me to do. Or rather, he didn’t tell me I had to do it, it was just a suggestion, but it was one that stuck in my mind. It made me think, like all of his suggestions do, which I guess is the point of therapy, to guide me to what I want. 

It’s strange, having a therapist, especially for over two years, because it’s liking talking to another, more enlightened version of myself. He seems to know what I’m thinking before I do, acting almost like my subconscious, telling me what I already subconsciously know. I suppress so much, I pretend like I don’t feel what I’m feeling, and my therapist coaxes it out of me, he brings it to my attention, he lays it out in front of me, and most of the time I’m grateful for it, because it’s helped me become less depressed, less scared, less alone. But this time, I can’t decide if I’m glad or upset. I didn’t think about my feelings towards Louis until my therapist brought them up. 

I definitely felt an attraction towards him, but I felt it more as a magnetic pull to just be around him, to be friends with him. But now that my therapist has brought my subconscious to my conscience, I’ve realized that it’s more than a pull to just be friends. It’s a pull to be near him, to see his smile, even hold him. I’m not a physical person, but now, I feel a strong desire to hug Louis, maybe hold his hand, and maybe—though I’d never fully admit this to myself—maybe even kiss him. 

I’m gay. But it’s not something I like to talk about. I came out to my therapist within the first two or three months of attending sessions, but it wasn’t difficult, because my therapist was gay, too, and I knew he wouldn’t judge me or make me feel lesser. In fact, he was one of the main reasons I wasn’t afraid to come out, because I saw how confident it made him, but like I said, I don’t talk about it. I know Louis is gay, because after binge-watching is videos, I came across his coming out one, but I didn’t feel any need to bring it up. 

A person’s sexuality doesn’t define them, it doesn’t make them who they are, it doesn’t change how they love, or what love means to them, and that’s why I don’t bring it up. What’s the point? I’m not suddenly attracted to Louis because he happens to like boys as well, I’m attracted to him for other reasons. I’m not entirely sure what those reasons are though. That’s what I told my therapist when he asked me. Of course, I it took a while for us to even arrive at that junction, because his first question threw me so off-guard and made me question a lot of other shit as well. 

The overall question, however, was whether or not I was even wanting to enter into a relationship of any sorts outside of friendship. Was I strong enough? Was I stable enough? Was I even capable to love someone like that? These were the questions that we eventually arrived at, and I think the answer for the biggest question, would I want to date Louis, I think the answer to that is yes. If I have to think about it, doesn’t that make it obvious? I let myself fantasize a bit over it after the session, just imagine what it would be like to hold Louis' hand, or hug him, or kiss him, and while a lot of those fantasies were full of uncertainty of confusion, they were also full of desire, of wantonness. And there was a strangely comforting lack of fear. 

And that was so nice. To imagine something without any fear attached. A future with Louis had no fear attached to it. And that’s why, ultimately, my therapist suggested that I should just ask Louis if he was even interested. Just float the idea by him. I knew exactly what to say, my therapist had basically given me a script, but it was my job to actually read it out, and I’d waited until the day before my next session to do it. I knew my therapist wouldn’t be upset if I didn’t do it, he’d be nothing but supportive, but part of me really wants to do this. Not for him, but for me. Do something for me, for once. Something that I want to do. 

“I’m not nervous,” I reply, tying my shoes. Louis raises his eyebrows at me, before sitting down on the floor and hooking up his camera to his computer to sync the footage we just filmed. “You look nervous, Haz,” he states, and I blush, shrugging my shoulders as I sit up. I can feel the words bubbling up on my lips, so close to spilling over, but along with them, I feel this paralyzing, numbing, restrictive thing called doubt, and I freeze. I don’t mean to, it’s not something I can control, and I hate it. I hate that it had to make an appearance now, when I was in a relatively good mood, relatively calm, but not anymore. 

Now I really am nervous. I can feel it in the way my cheeks are heating up, in the way my palms are sweating, in the look that Louis is giving me. His eyes widen in concern as he abandons his computer to move and sit next to me, not close enough to touch me, but an arms length away, in case I start having an anxiety attack. Which, if I just focus on breathing and relaxing, I don’t think will happen. My mind is just racing, trying to talk me out of doing what I want to do, and I can’t let it control me like that. I want this. I know I do. I’ve thought about it, contemplated the pros and cons for a week, and I can’t let the cons take over my mind again. I can’t. 

And so I push through it, or at least I try to. Of course, Louis helps. “Harry, is everything okay? If you’re really that nervous, I’m sure you can cancel your session,” he says, and my eyes dart to meet his. Once again, I detect that peaceful energy in them, that peacefulness that I saw when I first met him, and I wonder how it got there, and it helps distract me a little from my aggressive thoughts. “No, I’m not nervous about therapy,” I say, my voice shaking and betraying me, reminding me of my severe lack of confidence. 

Louis' eyes scrunch together in confusion as he tilts his head, unconsciously moving a little bit closer to me, his hand resting on the couch cushion centimeters from my thigh. I can’t tell if I want him to keep inching closer or not. “What’s making you nervous, then?” he asks, eyelashes fluttering, only worry in his eyes. He’s worried for me. That makes my heart speed up even more, but it’s a good kind of increase, one that sends excitement though my veins. My own eyes drop to the ground at the intensity of Louis' gaze, and I swallow, mustering up whatever courage I possibly can, and I take a deep breath. 

“You are,” I whisper, and then I flinch at the words. I’m hoping to feel like there’s a weight off of my shoulders, but there isn’t, because I still haven’t exactly said what I’m supposed to. What I want to, I mean. I hear nothing but silence from Louis, and I’m desperate to see his reaction even if it’s a bad one, and so I lift my head, a mortified look on my face I’m sure, and when I look into Louis' eyes, I see less worry, more confusion, and a dash of intrigue. He’s so difficult to read, and I hate that. I hate not knowing what he’s thinking. 

“I’m making you nervous?” he asks, brow crinkling. I swallow, parting my lips, but I don’t know what to say, so I just nod, my hands instantly clasping each other, squeezing tightly. Louis stares at me for a moment longer, before laughing lightly, sitting up straight and running a hand through his hair. “I’m not intimidating, Haz,” he says, a gentle smile on his face. I can tell he’s still being careful not to upset me for some reason, and I appreciate it, but his lightheartedness is overall just making me more nervous, and I know that if I wait any longer, I won’t be able to say it at all, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to work up the courage to do so again. Failing at something is like a cardinal sin to me, if I fail, it’s extremely hard for me to try again. It’s something I’ve been working on, but needless to say, I can’t fail at this. 

And so I won’t. 

“Louis,” I say slowly, forcing my hands apart. Louis' eyes lock with mine, and I have every ounce of his attention. Those piercingly powdery blue eyes that remind me of oceans, that convey a sense of self-acceptance and peace, they pierce my shy, scared ones. “I have feelings for you,” I say, and as soon as the words exit my mouth, I feel a fear so strong it literally makes my blood run cold, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swear in this moment, time stands still. The sun doesn’t move in the sky, the leaves don’t rustle on their branches, my lungs don’t fill with air. The only thing that does change are the emotions in Louis' eyes. Starting first with pure surprise, and then fading into uncertainty, darkening past that into a depthless sadness almost, before finally settling on despair. 

And to see that despair, it only reflects into my eyes, and I begin to feel it too. Because I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything by just admitting my feelings to Louis. Feelings that I didn’t even know I had until a week ago. I just threw away the only friendship I’ve ever had on something that I didn’t even know existed until my therapist brought it up. What’s Louis thinking? Does he think that our entire friendship was just based on some juvenile little high school crush? What about the bond we’ve created? We’ve seen each other at our lowest, at our most vulnerable, does he think that I was just taking advantage of him? This is wrong. This is all wrong. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. This is what I do. I always fuck up the best things I have going for me. 

As soon as I open my mouth, time starts up again, and it hits me like a wall. I flinch back against it, my hands releasing their hold on each other, a hold that I didn’t even know was happening, and I feel the blood rush back to my fingers, tingling. I don’t know what I’m about to say, and frankly I don’t care, I just want to take it all back, just pretend like nothing was said, I just want to leave and go to my therapy session where I can cry there and beat myself up there, and figure out what I’m going to do now that I don’t have Louis as a friend anymore. “Harry, breathe,” Louis says, pulling me back to reality, where he’s still sitting in front of me, a worried expression on his face. 

I take his advice, sucking in a large breath of air, and it helps a bit, clearing my head and reminding me that I can’t let my thoughts control me. Because it’s never as bad as it seems. Except sometimes it is, and I’m afraid that this time it is. Because Louis clearly doesn’t feel the same way. If he did, he wouldn’t be hesitating right now, and he certainly wouldn’t have that look of despair still in his eyes. “I have feelings for you, too,” he replies, and it’s a good thing I just took a deep breath, because I suddenly can’t breathe again. 

My eyes about pop out of their sockets as I process the words, my heart racing, my body flooding with a warmth that almost cancels out the ice that was left by the fear. I wasn’t expecting him to reciprocate the feelings. Of course, it’s what I wanted, and it his response wasn’t really what I was focused on, I was more focused on myself actually being able to admit to my own feelings, but now that he has responded, and the feelings are mutual, I don’t know what to think. But I don’t have time to think, because Louis finishes his statement, and suddenly that warmth disappears. 

“But you don’t want to date me,” he says, and that’s when time stands still again. I feel my face crumple into an almost painful expression, and tears well up in my eyes, but I’m sure they’re motivated not just by this news, but by the emotional weight of this entire last ten minutes. Louis almost instantly makes to move closer, his hands lifting to rest on my shoulders I’m sure, but he stops himself, and once again, I can’t tell if I want him to touch me or not. At this point I’m a sobbing, overwhelmed mess, so I’m not sure what my reaction will be. 

“I’m a drug addict, I don’t want to put that burden on you,” Louis rushes to say, his voice pleading and desperate, his own eyes watering. I try my best to focus on his words, to just focus on him. “I wouldn’t be able to love you the way that you need to be loved, Harry, and you deserve to be loved in the strongest, most pure way,” he says, and my heart aches at what he’s saying. At what he’s sacrificing. And beneath the affection towards him, I feel an anger now. I’m just a potluck of emotions. 

I press my lips together, before shaking my head. “Your addiction doesn’t define you, Louis, and I wish you’d stop acting like it does,” I say, my voice broken and quiet, but firm nonetheless. A tear falls down Louis' cheek as he sighs, lowering his face as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It would never work out, Haz,” he whispers, and I feel the knife of rejection stab me directly in the heart, and I instantly begin to freak out as my mind jumps to all the worst possible conclusions. The main one is losing him. What does this mean for our friendship? How can it possibly survive this revelation? The answer is simple. It can’t. And I don’t think I can handle that. 

It happened without me even noticing. A bond was created without me even realizing. Strings wrapped around me, tied around my wrists, my throat, tying Louis to me. Strings that were holding me up, that were keeping me from drowning, and now, now they’re about to be cut. And I’m about to fall into that dark pool again, that suffocating pool that pressed on my chest and told me what was the point? What was the point of living a short, depressing life? Please, Louis, please don’t let me drown again. 

I realize almost too late, that I’ve said those words aloud. My eyes widen as I see Louis' jaw drop, and that’s all it takes. Everything comes crashing down as I see the effect that my depression has on Louis, and it’s all over. Reality melts away, colors run like rivers, and I feel everything stop as the dark water of sadness and fear rises up and over me, surrounding me. I feel the tendrils wrap around me, choking me, sending my mind back to my childhood, to all the other times that I’ve been abandoned. I’m having a flashback, I’m having an episode. 

It’s hard to explain a panic attack, let alone one that’s more of a flashback than anything, but I’ll just say one thing. It’s a crippling fear, something that quite literally makes you feel like it’s you against the world, and there’s hardly anything that helps, and even then, it’s different for everyone. I’ve learned that the best thing for me is just suffer through it, but then again, I’ve never had someone be there for me. To hold me. To talk me down. To just be there with me through it. 

I pull my hands to my chest, my jaw strained as my muscles tense in terror, and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from Louis. Because he’s like my anchor, the one reminder that this pool I’m drowning in isn’t real, it’s not real, it’s not real. “Hey, hey,” Louis says, moving forward and reaching out a hand, letting it fall on my shoulder. I don’t mean to, but I flinch, my body moving of its own accord, sending me stumbling up and back, all the way until I hit the wall opposite. My eyes are wide and terrified, it’s like I can’t breathe, and when I look at Louis, he’s scared. 

I don’t want him to be scared. 

He was wrong. It was me who shouldn’t date him. It was him who should date me. Just look at me. Having a fucking meltdown in his living room for the second time. I’m selfish. I’m a mess. If he thinks he’s incapable of loving me, why the hell do I think I’d be able to love him? This whole thing was a mistake. One giant, mistake. It was a good run, and I suppose this is how I always knew it was going to end. With me having a flashback and scaring off my only friend. 

I feel his arms around me before I can react, and even though my body pushes against him, trying to get him to release me, my mind embraces the contact, latching onto it, focusing in on it, using it as a distraction, and I need it. Because I need the memories of my father to leave me. I need to not associate this touch with my father’s fists, I need to associate it with a love that I never received as a child, I need to learn to let it comfort me. But my body is programmed to resist any type of physical contact, a leftover instinct from my childhood to protect myself, but I can’t let it win, I can’t. “Don’t, don’t let go,” I say, mind over body, and Louis responds by tightening his grasp on me, hugging me to him. “I won’t ever let you go,” he whispers, and I let out a shaky, harsh breath, forcing my eyes to shut. 

Once I’m blind to the sights of the physical world, I can better feel Louis' arms around me. It’s a tight, but gentle embrace, one that makes me feel safe despite it all, and I try not to think about the fact that this is exactly what I can’t have. But it’s what I want. I want it so badly. Just standing here, letting him hug me, it’s calming me down, it’s returning me to reality, it’s bringing the colors back, and if that isn’t reason enough to be with him, then I don’t know what is. Fuck his reasoning. He’s doubting himself. I know he can love me the way I need to be loved. And to me, any love is better than no love, surely he understands that. 

“This is what I need,” I say, surprising myself. “I need you to be here for this,” My eyes flutter open as Louis leans back, not releasing his hold on me, but adjusting to where he can look at me. My heart is already slowing as I peer into his eyes, his eyes that are still watery and full of despair, but I feel relief when I see a little bit of that peace again. “I’ll always be here,” Louis replies, his voice light as air. His eyes search mine for a minute, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I unclench my fists, and let my hands settle on either side of Louis' face. We stare at each other in the silence, in that pool of darkness, and I find myself removing his glasses for some reason. I just want to look into his eyes. Those beautifully tragic eyes that carry with them the same amount of sorrow that mine do, just hidden away with that inner peace that I want so desperately to achieve. 

Louis swallows, and I return to rest my hands on his neck, just breathing deep breaths, letting my mind calm down, letting everything calm down. I’m still teetering on the edge, it won’t take much for me to fall back down, but in Louis' arms, I think I’ll be easier. A few minutes pass, and then I feel the shift before it actually happens. Louis' eyes harden, and so does his grip on me. “Fuck it,” he says, and then before I know it, he’s pulling my face towards his, and in a collision that reminds me of fireworks, our lips crash together, and the earth stops spinning for the third time today. 

I inhale a deep breath as I feel my lips against Louis', his hand in my hair, and my eyes widen in shock, my entire body tensing up at the unknown feeling, a bout of fear running through before being chased away with relief and satisfaction, and I sigh, my eyes sliding shut as I melt against Louis, kissing him back. Our lips go together like puzzle pieces, and they’re so soft, and sweet-tasting, and kissing him makes me feel like I ’m walking on air, like nothing can stop me, like I’ll never be alone. He moans lightly against my mouth, the kiss passionate but slow and gentle at the same time, and I breathe him in, I breathe every part of him in. 

It’s the perfect kiss. It’s the absolute worst scenario, but it’s still the perfect kiss. It’s everything I’ve been looking for, without even knowing. Love. An electricity flowing through one person and into another. An unbreakable bond, not defined by sexualities, or by flaws, or addictions, or anything. Defined only by the two people sharing in it, experiencing it. 

When we break it off, it’s not for long, because as soon as I look at him, I want to kiss him all over again. And so I do. Over and over again. Because why not? I know that we’re going to have to talk about what it means later, I know that everything is still shit and it’s not resolved, and there’s still so much to work out, but in this moment, I’m in bliss, and I’m going to take advantage of it for as long as I can. And when I fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first night that I don’t wake up screaming. 

Because he’s holding me. 

***

*three hours later* 

Ring, ring, ring. I sit up in bed so quickly I know I’m going to wake up later with a headache. I’m instantly on high alert, because nobody calls this late unless it’s one of my patients. I usually don’t adhere to late-night phone calls, preferring to be in my right mind before dealing with any medicine, but if it’s a late-night phone call, it means something significant is occurring, and so I clear my throat, and wipe my eyes before answering. I don’t bother checking the caller ID, because at this point, it doesn’t really matter, but I can’t say I’m surprised when I hear the voice on the other line. 

He missed his session, of course I expected him to call. Maybe not this late, but hey, better late than never, right? So I’m not surprised to receive a call from Harry. What surprises me are his words. “Harry? Is everything okay?” I ask, and almost immediately the last dregs of slumber disappear as I take in Harry’s tone of voice. Panicking, frenzied, scared, it’s a voice that I don’t recognize, because I haven’t heard it in such a long time. I stand up, my eyes already falling on my dresser. “Harry, calm down, have you called 911?” I ask, trying my best to keep my voice steady despite the fact that I, too, am slightly scared. 

Scratch that. I’m a lot scared. 

 

When I arrive at the hospital, it’s so early that it’s understaffed, which is an issue because I really need someone to give me privileges. I don’t work at the hospital, so I’m not allowed to visit patients or practice medicine without explicit permission from the chief of psychology. Usually it’s not an issue, as I’ve visited patients up at the hospital before, and it’s not like I needed it written on paper and notarized, I just needed to hear the words come from the mouth of the chief. But I can’t find the chief of psychology because it’s four in the morning, and he’s probably at home, fast asleep. 

I do my best to keep as calm as possible, even though my mind is racing, trying to figure out what exactly has happened. I know the basics, but Harry was such a mess when he called me, I really only got a basic outline of everything before I was doing my best trying to keep him calm, getting him to call 911 and roll Louis onto his side, and make sure he still had a pulse. I stayed on the line, sitting in my bed, my nerves like a live wire as I listened to Harry’s sobs, his heavy breathing. I waited until I heard the sirens and the paramedics, and then I hung up, jumping out of bed and pulling my shoes on. The only thing I took with me was my credentials and my wallet, and a whole lot of fear. 

Which isn’t good, because when I see Harry I can’t look scared. I have to look calm and collected, I have to look like a therapist, I have to look like I know exactly what to say, I have to look like I have a solution. But I don’t. I have no fucking idea what to say to Harry. I can lie and tell him that it’ll all be okay, that he’ll be okay, that Louis will be fine, but I don’t know that. I don’t know if Louis will be fine. And because of that, I don’t know if Harry will be fine. 

It’s his mother all over again. His mother died of a drug overdose when he was thirteen, leaving him and his siblings with a heartbroken and subsequently abusive father. He loved his mother, she was the only one who truly understood him and listened to him. I never told Harry this, but from the way he described him, Louis reminded me of Harry’s mother in many ways. Not just the drug abuse, but his carefree yet thoughtful personality, the way he distracted Harry from his antics, ignored his flaws and embraced his strengths, they were all similar to Harry’s mother. Harry was attracted to what he had lost, he was attracted to that comfort that he had been deprived of. But beyond that, Louis was more than his mother ever was. Because Louis was there. And he also provided Harry with a different type of love. A romantic, selfless love that made Harry feel important, feel needed and wanted, everything that I was trying to teach him to feel on his own. 

I was trying to teach him to love himself, to appreciate himself, without another person. I wanted him to be independent, to be able to be happy on his own, but I didn’t realize that sometimes it takes another person to help one get there. Harry needed someone else to show him what he was worth. Someone who he wasn’t paying and who wasn’t there because they had been asked to be there. Someone who had no reason to love him, who did it only because it’s what they, too, wanted. Louis was saving Harry. He was saving him. 

And now, now it’s his turn to be saved. But this time, it’s out of my hands. I can’t do anything to save Louis. All I can do is hope and pray and make sure that if Louis survives, Harry will be there, too. That’s what I can do. I can go make sure that Harry doesn’t let this ruin him. But if he stays up in the psych ward any longer without a familiar face, without a lifeline, he’s going to be driven past the point of sanity. I’ve seen it happen too many times with too many patients before him and I will not let another soul be taken from me. Harry isn’t just a patient at this point. He’s a friend. 

I have to force myself not to run down the psych ward hallways, because the last thing I need is to be committed myself because I look too distressed. As much as every slow step pains me, I do it, and eventually I arrive at the counter, where a very tired looking nurse in grey scrubs lazily lifts her head to peer at me, dark circles underneath her eyes. Despite trying my best to appear calm and collected, I probably look the complete opposite with my wide eyes and messy hair, and the fact that I’m in my pajamas, but I can’t worry about that right now. I only have room to worry about one thing. One person. 

“I need to know what room Harry Edward Styles is in,” I ask, my voice thankfully steady despite my frazzled appearance. The nurse blinks a few time, before leaning narrowing her eyes. “Visiting hours aren’t for another three hours, sir,” she says, her eyes giving me a once over. I groan, slamming my credentials down on the counter in frustration. The longer I stay here, the worse Harry is going to get. Seconds count in this situation. I push my certifications forward, tapping my name harshly. “I’m a board certified psychologist, now tell me where the hell my patient is!” I say, my voice rising to a shout towards the end. The nurse flinches back at my tone, but quickly types on her computer, before shakily giving me a room number. 

“Thanks for your help,” I say icily, before grabbing my credentials and shoving them back in my pocket. There’s still the issue of privileges, but at this point I don’t even care. I know where Harry is, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do whatever it takes to help him, and if that means getting suspended then so be it. If it saves a life, then it really doesn’t matter. I actually do break out into a run after getting the room number, dashing around the corners and almost falling a few times, but it gets me there faster, and thank God, because I can hear Harry’s sobs before I even open the door. 

I don’t take any time to collect myself before yanking open the door, surprising everyone present. I let my eyes take in as much as possible in as little time as possible. I see two orderlies trying to subdue a very distressed Harry, who is pressing himself against the wall opposite, face pale and streaked with tear stains, hands clenched in fists against his chest, his entire body shaking with what looks like one part fear for himself and two parts fear for another. The orderlies have their hands out, as if they’re going to fight Harry or something, and it doesn’t take long for me to catch the syringe in their hands. My eyes widen at the realization that they’re just trying to knock Harry out, and I instantly step forward, physically knocking the needle from the orderly’s hand, offense written all over my features. What kind of institution is this? 

“Do not drug my patient,” I say harshly, turning around to where I’m between the orderlies, my back to Harry. They both look like I’ve shocked them, disbelief decorating their faces. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are?” one asks, standing up straight. I narrow my eyes, yet again pulling out my credentials. “I’m his psychologist, and I think I can take things from here,” I say, my tone anything but nice. The two women share a glance, before huffing and turning around, stomping out of the room like I had banished them. It’s like they were some sickos who got off on just drugging those who were slowly losing their hold on reality. 

Once the door shuts, I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment as I gather my thoughts. I’ve dealt with mental breakdowns before, of course I have, but Harry is an especially sensitive case, because of his PTSD, so I have to play this extremely carefully. Anything I say could be a trigger for him now, in this vulnerable state, and I don’t want to make things any worse for him by accidentally triggering flashbacks to layer over his already traumatizing reality. I have to reassure him, I have to convince him that everything will be alright. I have to comfort him, even though I’m not the one he wants to comfort him. It’s with that thought in mind that I know what to say. I know what will get him to listen to me. 

“You’re here,” I hear Harry whisper, and it’s not a question, it’s a statement. It sounds more like a plea actually, and when I turn around and finally look at him, I see the desperation written across his face. Wide, terrified eyes, his hands still cradled against his chest, his jaw trembling. I stay where I am, knowing that it’s best to just let him create any change in position, whatever doesn’t make him uncomfortable. “Breathe, Harry,” I say, and then take a deep breath myself, hoping that he copies me. He doesn’t the first time, but the second time I lift my hands along to add a visualization, and am relieved when I see Harry suck in a large breath as well, his chest rising and falling slowly. I repeat the motion a few more times, until Harry’s eyes flutter shut and he’s doing it on his own. 

“What do you need from me?” I ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from him. If I hear it from him, then I can acknowledge that he acknowledges that he needs help. He knows he’s not alone, that it’s okay to ask for help, and that’s so important to establish. If he doesn’t acknowledge that he’s allowed to ask for help, then my words are empty. I hope he answers. I really, really do. And he does.t But I’m not expecting the words that come out of his mouth. He looks at me, his green eyes pleading, so desperate, so…helpless. “I need you to go be with Louis,” he whispers. 

I won’t lie, it takes me a few seconds to process just what he’s asked of me. He’s asking me to go be with Louis. He’s asking me to leave him, leave him alone in the psych ward, to go be with a person that I don’t even know outside of Harry’s stories. He’s consciously choosing the well-being of another person over himself. “I’ll be okay,” he says next, and that just really throws a wrench into my thought process, like being blindsided twice, and I actually feel the shock on my own face. My jaw drops in disbelief at hearing those words, and it’s not just the words, but the sincerity behind them. He’s not saying them lightly, he means them, I see it in his eyes. I’m not sure if I entirely believe them, but. 

“You asked me what I needed,” he continues, his gaze hardening as he finally lowers his hands and steps forward. “And I need you to go be with Louis, and make sure he’s okay,” Tears spring into his eyes at Louis' name, and I feel my heart ache for him. I never truly understood the bond these two shared, but I think after this, I think I’ll get it. Or maybe I won’t ever get it, because it’s a bond that can only be understood by those sharing in it. But regardless, I know that I have to do this for him. I have to go and be with Louis, and hope that he means it when he says he’ll be okay. I swallow, nodding, smiling gently. “Okay,” I reply, but then I harden my gaze a little too. 

I point to the bed, watch as his eyes dart to it, and I see a flicker of understanding. “The breathing exercises, do them,” I instruct, stepping back as I give Harry room to lay down. I need to see him physically do it, but more importantly, I need the orderlies—who are no doubt watching us through the cameras—to see him calming down. Harry nods slowly, still trembling as he climbs into the bed, laying his head against the pillows and sighing deeply. I wait a few moments, until his eyes flutter shut and his chest begins to move in a rhythmic pattern. I back up until I hit the door, and I take a shaky breath. I don’t want to leave him alone, I really don’t, but I have to do this. It’s what he wants, after all. “Everything will be okay,” I say, and then I open the door, slipping out into the hallway. I’m a little mentally overwhelmed, my expression still shocked as I shake my head, reaching up and rubbing my eyes before moving away from his room. I have to figure out where exactly Louis is, but first, I need to make sure I don’t return to a drugged up Harry Styles. 

I find the orderlies station and I stomp up to it, slamming my hands down loudly on the countertop, glaring at the two women, who seemed almost bored to see me again. “I swear to God, if I come back and I so much as catch a scent of morphine in the hallway outside of my patient’s room I will sue your asses for medical malpractice, do you understand me?” I ask venomously, every syllable laced with poison. I notice the orderlies’ faces pale significantly as they both jerk their heads in acknowledgement. “Now tell me where I can find Louis Tomlinson,” I demand. 

***

“He flatlined twice, but thankfully we got him back both times, and he’s undergoing detoxification right now,” the doctor says, and it’s too early for this. I’m not a surgeon, my craft lies in the psyche not the physique, and while I’ve studied all the medical terms that the doctor is continuing to throw into my face, they’re not terms I use on a daily basis, and so I have trouble truly understanding them. “But he’s awake and breathing?” I ask, cutting off the doctor. The doctor narrows his eyes at my blunt rudeness, but nods nonetheless, walking forward and stopping in front of a door. “You said you’re a psychologist?” he asks, head tilted in confusion, as if he doesn’t believe me for some reason. I wait a beat, my expression blank, before nodding. The doctor sighs, raising an eyebrow before opening the door, muttering something under his breath that I don’t even try to catch. 

Once his back is to me I step inside the room, wishing that it’s under different circumstances and that I’m  
not in my pajamas but nonetheless, it is what it is. He’s sat up in the bed, multiple tubes and wires sprouting of his arm that are connected to a very scary, very complicated looking machine, and he looks like he’s in a lot of pain. There’s a clear sheen of sweat across his forehead, and his breathing is way too rapid for someone laying in a bed. I look at him, and I try and feel some sympathy, but for some reason, I can’t. I don’t feel one ounce of sorrow for him. He put himself in this situation after all, it’s nobody’s fault but his own. 

But I’m not here to chastise him or punish him or make he realize what I’m sure he’s already realized. I’m here to make sure he’s okay. I’m here to finally get to know him, to talk to him and see what about him is so mesmerizing to Harry. I’m here to finally get the missing puzzle piece in Harry’s jigsaw. “Who are you?” Louis asks, breathless. My eyes dart up to meet his, and I smile warmly, shutting the door behind me. “Withdrawal’s a bitch, isn’t it?” I reply, already able to tell that the way I talk to Harry isn’t going to work with Louis. He’s not vulnerable like Harry, he isn’t sensitive or gentle, he’s hardened, built up a wall to protect himself. He won’t respond to me the same way Harry does. I’m trained to read people, and I know that I’m going to have to be a bit blunt with Louis, a bit vulgar even, not gentle and kind. I won’t need to lead him to conclusions like I have to with Harry. I won’t have to tiptoe around him. I won’t have to worry about him. 

Louis laughs a bit at my words, lowering his head as I move to sit down in the chair next to his bed. “You’re the therapist, aren’t you?” he pants, eyes reopening to peer into mine. They’re a nice set of eyes, nicer perhaps when they’re not bloodshot. I nod, scooting closer and smiling. “My name is Niall, it’s nice to finally meet you, Louis,” I reply. 

 

 

I tell him everything. I know I’m not technically breaking the patient-doctor confidentiality code, because I have Harry’s permission to divest all his information to Louis, but I can’t help but feel guilty nonetheless. This is all heavy shit, stuff that took months for me to coax out of Harry, and he entrusted me to not tell anyone ever, so to be telling it to someone—no matter the context—just makes me feel weird, and Louis picks up on it. 

“Doc, is something bothering you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows behind his glasses. I stop mid-sentence, faltering a bit, blinking rapidly as I process the interruption. “Sorry?” I ask, confused slightly. Louis stares back at me, before frowning. “You sound like you’re spilling the secrets of the universe, babe,” he says, laughing slightly. I flush, not used to being the one being read. Usually it was me who did all the reading, it was my job after all, but Louis is perceptive. Kind of like Harry, but without the automatically negative disposition. And Harry never attempted to voice his perceptions of me. I blink a few more times, chewing the inside of my cheek before resting my hands in my lap. 

“This is highly sensitive information, Louis,” I explain, hardening my gaze. “And I need you to treat it as such, I’m entrusting it with you, that you won’t tell anyone,” I purposely put a warning in my tone, not that I distrust Louis, but because I just don’t know him as well as I do Harry. He may seem trustworthy now and Harry may trust him, but he could have his own secrets that neither of us know about, and I need him to know that if he hurts Harry with this newfound information I will personally hurt him right back, because Harry is my patient and I stand up for all of my patients. 

However, at the tone, I see Louis' eyes widen, and he waves his hands—well, the one hand that isn’t attached to wires—and shakes his head. “Oh no, no, I wouldn’t ever tell anyone, I wouldn’t ever hurt Harry! I lo—,” he cuts off suddenly then, cheeks burning a dark maroon, his eyes darting down to the ground, a very common sign when someone has said something they didn’t mean to. Internally I feel a spike in energy and I make a mental note of the slip-up. It’s pretty clear what he was going to say before stopping himself, but I pretend like I don’t hear it, though I now take everything he says in a different context. A caring, compassionate, loving context, his words aren’t motivated by something as simple as platonic affection. No, there’s something more there. 

I always knew Harry was in love with Louis. I knew it from the moment he started talking about him. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he always brightened when he spoke about him, in the way he was more willing to confront of his own fears. But I never knew if Louis felt the same way, because I hadn’t met him, I hadn’t spoken to him before. I had only heard stories, I had a secondhand version of him illustrated in my head, nothing concrete, nothing I could actually rely on. I had no idea if what Harry was telling me about Louis was actually true or filtered by love, but now, now that I’m sitting in front of Louis, and I’m studying the way he’s looking right now, caught in a slip-up, I see it. 

That bond that one creates when they find the person they can love forever, the person they can confide anything into, the person they can hug and kiss and hold and love. Even when they’re apart, it’s like a little shine in their eyes, a little smile that never seems to go away because every waking moment you exist you know that you are loved. And I see that in Harry, and I see it in Louis. But I keep all of this to myself, because nobody needs to be told what love looks like. Because it isn’t a look, it’s a feeling, and only the person experiencing it can truly know what it feels like to them. 

I ignore the slip-up, and I just keep telling him everything. I tell him about Harry’s childhood, about how his father abused him after his mother’s death because he blamed him for her cancer. About how his sister moved out and took Harry with her, but then social services returned him to his abusive father where he suffered for six more years until he turned eighteen and moved himself out. About how he moved to Los Angeles and moved from shelter to shelter, freelancing wherever he could, before someone finally saw potential in him as some sort of artist, and hired him on as a rookie photographer, gifting him his first ever camera, where he found his passion and his art form, and turned it into his career. 

About how he went through two other therapists until me, and how he’s stuck with me for the past almost three years. About how he’s never really had friends. About how he will always suffer from flashbacks and nightmares no matter how much he heals, because that’s how badly he was scarred. 

“He didn’t have a nightmare last night,” Louis suddenly interrupts, muttering almost under his breath. I stop talking again, crinkling my eyebrows at the information. “What?” I ask, before allowing myself to analyze the statement. Louis' eyes flutter up to meet mine, solemn, before nodding. “Before I…well,” he gestures to all the wires sprouting out of his arms before continuing. “I made sure he was asleep, like deep asleep,” he says. I listen closely, my brow furrowing the more he says. “And he usually has his night terrors about an hour after he falls asleep, but he didn’t last night. He stayed quiet the whole time,” Louis is whispering towards the end, eyes trained on his hands, as if he feels guilty, which I guess he has a right to. 

No night terrors. A full night’s rest, without the aid of medicine? Night terrors are a sometimes permanent side effect of PTSD, they’re not something you just get over in a normal circumstance, so why didn’t Harry have one? “Were you holding him?” I ask, ignoring the fact that the question is quite intrusive. Louis looks a bit surprised, before blushing and nodding, tucking his lips in. I narrow my eyes as I contemplate. People usually sleep better in the presence of another person, they feel safer and protected, it’s a proven fact. But not one that I ever thought I’d apply to Harry. Harry, who flinches when even I try and pat him on the shoulder or hand him a tissue. Harry, who would rather be alone in the desert than in a crowd, slept soundly with another person’s arms around him.

The answer, once again, to my question is love. That’s why he was able to sleep with arms around him. That’s also probably why he didn’t have any night terrors. He had nothing to be terrified over, because someone was there to protect him. Louis took away his night terrors. I feel my gaze softening to the point where I probably look like I’m looking at a hero, and Louis gives me a confused look, frowning once again. “Why do you look like you’ve heard the voice of God?” he asks, raising his eyebrows when I don’t answer immediately. 

I take a deep breath, figuring I’d told him just about everything, now it was time to get to the real thing I want to ask him. I wasn’t planning on asking this of him, but after spending some time getting to know his personality and feelings towards Harry, I know it’s right. For both his sake and Harry’s sake, but hopefully it benefits the both of them, and I think it will. 

I sit up straight and rest my hands on the bed, my eyes piercing Louis', trying my hardest to be as serious as possible, which isn’t difficult in this situation. Louis flinches back a bit at my harsh gaze, but I have his attention, and I’m going to keep it. I have to make sure he understands what I’m saying, understands all the implications and meaning behind the words. He’s smart, I know he will. 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully, Louis,” I say slowly, my voice lower than usual. Louis swallows nervously, and nods. I nod back to him, before continuing on. “He loves you,” I say. I hear Louis' breath catch in his throat, and his eyes shimmer a bit, but I keep going, forcing myself not to analyze anything until I’m finished. “As long as I have known him, the only person he has ever loved has been his sister and loosely at that. He hasn’t been capable of loving even himself, but I have seen the shift in him, the change, and it’s because of you,” I wait a beat, not wanting to pile it all on Louis too quickly, but I don’t pause long, because I can feel myself growing more antsy the longer I wait. 

“He loves you, and he depends on you, and he has gotten better because of you,” I feel my own throat closing up for some reason, my emotions acting before my brain can process them, and I realize in this moment how much I have come to care for the well being of my patient, and how much I just want him to be loved back, and I think Louis is the person to do it. “I’m asking for you to do something for me, or rather, for him,” I say, swallowing my own feelings and focusing on Louis. Louis is hanging onto my every word, listening with rapt attention, eyes wide and shining. I take a shaky breath, before asking the favor. 

“I need you to protect him,” I say. “I need you to be there for him, to keep him safe, and keep him calm, but most importantly, I need you to love him,” I feel my heart swell and my throat close up as a tear leaks out of my eye without permission. I don’t cry over my patients, I just don’t, it’s a rule, one that I’ve stuck by, but for some reason, I’m crying for Harry. But not sad tears, no, these are happy tears, because I know that he’s finally getting some good in his life. He’s finally been granted a reprieve. And that makes me cry in relief, it makes me so happy for him, so so happy for my sweet little Harry, who did nothing to deserve a world so cruel. I blink away my tears and keep going, exhaling loudly through my mouth. 

“I need him to be loved and to always be loved, and I’m asking you, Louis, to do that for me, because I think you can, and because he already loves you back, he loves you. He loves you, and I need you to love him back, okay?” I brush away another tear. “Can you do that?” I finish, looking at him with a bit of a plea in my eyes now, my hands gripping the blankets tightly. Louis looks at me like I’ve handed him the key to the universe, and slowly, slowly, his face melts into a soft expression, his lips tilted up ever so slightly, tears glistening in his eyes. 

“Niall,” he says quietly. “I’m already doing it,” He moves his hand to pat mine, the smile still on his face. I feel myself returning it as my heart slows down, not having noticed it was racing beforehand. Louis smiles a bit more, before sitting up a bit. “Just so you know, Doc,” he says, pulling his hand back. I raise my eyebrows, curious as to what he’s going to say now. Curious as to everything else that’s going to happen next. “It may be a different type of love, but Harry isn’t just loved by me, he’s loved by you too,” he says quietly. 

And despite my efforts not to, his words bring back the tears. Happy tears. 

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea? What if he freaks out again?” Louis asks, gripping my hand tightly as we slowly walk down the hallway. It’s the next morning, I’m finally in my regular clothes, my hair is styled, teeth clean, everything nice and the way it should be, except not at all because I’m at a hospital leading a withdrawing drug addict to my very sensitive PTSD patient. I bite my lip, before nodding and smiling reassuringly. “It’s a good idea, and he won’t freak out, it’s you,” I say, though I can hear the wavering in my tone. Louis lifts an uncertain eyebrow in my direction, obviously picking up on my tone as well, but I just smile again and hope he ignores it. 

I’m pretty confident that Harry won’t freak out, he seemed relatively calm when I visited him last night and this morning, the only worrying thing being the amount of times he asked about Louis. How was Louis? Was he dead? Was he alive? Was he asleep? What was wrong? Where was he? Can I see him? So many questions, it made me feel like the patient and Harry the therapist. I managed to calm him down only with promises of bringing Louis to see him, and so this is what I’m doing now. I am expecting some sort of emotional freak out, but nothing to be concerned about, and if something does go wrong, I’ll be right there to intervene. Though I have a feeling Louis would be able to handle it just fine at this point. 

We arrive at Harry’s room, and I’m all ready to open the door and watch the magic happen, but as I lean forward to do just that, I feel Louis pull back. Not enough to actually yank me away from the door, but enough that I can feel his resistance. I stop my movements and turn around, dropping his hand and furrowing my brow in concerned confusion. “What’s wrong, Louis?” I ask, looking at him closely. I detect a hesitation, his own fear rolling off of him in waves that I can feel. His eyes dart from the door and make to me repeatedly, worry written all across his features. He bites his lower lip as his grip on his IV stand tightens, his knuckles turning white. “I don’t want to be bad for him,” he whispers, eyes moving from the door once again and locking with mine. 

He’s expecting me to have an answer already lined up, as if I’ve heard this question dozens of times before, which I have, but never under these circumstances. I think over his words for a moment, contemplating just what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to be detrimental to Harry, he doesn’t want to hurt him by being what he is. A drug addict. And I understand where he’s coming from, it’s not exactly difficult to see the flaws in the logic of putting an addict with a psychologically unstable person, but despite the flaws, I honestly think that pulling them apart at this point would be even worse. “I feel like my love is a poison to him,” Louis whispers, interrupting my train of thought. I crinkle my eyes at the analogy, having never thought about it such a harsh way. Louis nods slowly, his expression melting into one of sad defeat. 

“The more I love him, the more I make him depend on me, like I’m his drug,” he continues. He lowers his head in shame after that, and I feel my heart ache for him. The position these two boys have been put in, no amount of medical training could ever really teach me what it must feel like. It’s never been clearer to me how much Louis loves Harry than in this moment, where he’s literally insinuating that he’s willing to sacrifice his own happiness to protect Harry from himself. And while that’s very sweet and romantic and honestly, the smart thing to do, I know Harry, and I know that if Louis walks away right now, I’ll never see him fully recover. He’ll never get over Louis. His first real friend and his first love, he’ll never get past that. He’ll blame himself and drown in that self-pity, and that dark pool of depression will find him again and I don’t know if I can save him again. 

Hell, I didn’t even save him once, that was all Louis. 

“You are stronger than you think, Louis, and so is he,” I say softly. “But he is only strong with you by his side, and though your motives are pure, if you walk away from him, he won’t ever get better, and I don’t think you will either,” I decide it’s time for some psychological manipulation, because I really, really need Louis to walk through that door and go be for Harry what I never could be. “You need a support system,” I say, pointing a finger at him. He looks at me, confused for a minute, but I continue on, most likely answering his silent question. “You want to clean, right?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. Louis flushes, but nods, almost desperately. I nod back, before jabbing my thumb at the door behind me. “You want to get clean for him, yeah?” I ask, even though I already know the answers to these questions. They’re not meant as actual questions, but more as guidance to my point. 

Louis nods once again, eyes darting to the door, lingering there as I get to my point. “He’s going to be your support through that process, and you’re going to be his support, and you’re going to support each other, and that is not poisonous, do you understand me?” I wait until I know that Louis understands me. I wait until his eyes pierce mine, and I see that acknowledgement in his shimmery eyes, his depthless eyes that are one part terrified and one part desperate, eyes that I pity, that makes my heart ache for him. He nods twice, up and down, up and down, and I return it, before reaching behind me, and opening the door. 

I step aside, letting it drift slowly open, and I gesture for Louis to go in. He does, slowly, and when I don’t follow him inside, he turns around, scrunching his eyes. I wave him forward, hanging back and offering up a supportive smile. “I’ll be right outside if I hear anything that I shouldn’t,” I reassure, deciding in that moment that this is a time for just Louis and Harry, better spent in solitude, I don’t need to be there. That is not an experience for me. It is an experience for them. Louis hesitates, before smiling once more. He hesitates, one foot in the door, still looking at me, and I’m about to ask him if everything is okay, when he lets go of his IV stand and pulls me into a gentle hug. 

I’ll admit, I’m not expecting it all, most of my patients aren’t nearly as physical as this, but Louis isn’t technically a patient of mine, and if I remember correctly, Harry mentioned how physical Louis was with displaying his affection towards someone, whether it be platonic or not. I’m startled, but I hug him back, patting him awkwardly on the back. It doesn’t last long, Louis releasing me a few seconds after. When he looks at me, I detect a gleam of gratitude in his eyes, and he gives me a smile, and a cheesy little thumbs up, before taking a deep breath and walking completely into the room. I pull the door shut behind him, and then there’s nothing I can do but wait. Wait and hope that I made the right decision. 

 

***

He’s asleep. Well, fuck, I don’t want to wake him up. He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping, the lines disappearing from his forehead, cheeks smoothed out, lips slightly parted, beautiful. I wish I looked like that when I was asleep. I stare at him for a moment, biting my lip as I reach out and carefully brush back a few stray locks of hair, reveling in the feeling of them against my fingers. I’ve always loved his hair, it was one of the first things that I noticed about Harry, right after his quiet energy. And his smile. God, his smile, it has to cure cancer it’s that pure and innocent and genuine, and rare. I don’t see it enough. But when I do, I always remember it, and it always makes my day, and Jesus Christ, I sound so lovesick. Which I guess I am, if mister psychologist Niall is right in his evaluation, which I guess he probably is, he seems pretty qualified. 

I don’t know what to say. I’m still not entirely sure why I’m here, Niall’s words were somewhat confusing, but I guess I know the basic reason. To tell Harry I love him, and that I’ll always be there for him, which I do and I will be, but how do you say that to someone? This is something that you plan out, like a proposal, and I haven’t had any time to plan. I was quite literally yanked out of my sick bed and brought down here, though it was voluntary and I definitely do want to be here, and I realize that even if I did plan this out I would probably be just as nervous, but still. I’ve never poured my heart out to someone, because I’ve never loved someone like I love Harry, so I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing. But the longer I stand here the more nervous I’m going to get, so I suck in a breath, and gently rub circles into Harry’s shoulder. 

He’s never been a heavy sleeper, even with the assistance of medicine, so I know that the simple repeated pattern will pull him to consciousness pretty quickly, and I’m right. A few seconds later, he stirs, first turning to press his head into his pillow, hand clenching into a fist as he sighs loudly, before turning away from the pillow and slowly opening his eyes. I take a step back, wheeling my IV stand with me, careful not to tangle the chords. I’d just remove it, but I’m pretty sure whatever is hanging in that bag is more than intravenous fluid, because I slightly feel like I’m floating. But no worries, I’m grounded enough to be able to properly confess my undying love to this boy. I feel my heart speeding up as my breath does, the anticipation rising to the point of an almost mentally painful feeling. 

Harry’s eyes flutter, and I see their bright virescence for a split second, before they open up all the way and I barely even have time to smile at him before he is quite literally throwing the sheets off and lunging at me, our bodies colliding so fast I feel the breath leave me and I stumble back, only barely making sure to grab hold of my IV stand so my needle didn’t get yanked out, my other arm instantly wrapping around Harry’s torso, holding onto him for dear life as we stumble back, almost to the complete other side of the room, before we come to a stop a few feet from the door, Harry’s arms wrapped around my chest, his chin on my shoulder, pulling me against him, my face buried near his neck, breathing in his scent. After I regain my holdings on where I am and my breath, I let go of my IV stand and properly hug Harry back, as tight as I can. 

I haven’t realized how much I missed his presence even these past twenty four hours, how much I missed his scent and his energy and his touch, everything about him. My entire body is on fire with love for him, wantonness and desire, causing me to press him against me even more, turning my face into his neck as I breathe him in. I notice as we’re hugging that he’s trembling, his entire body shaking as we hold each other. I gently rub my hands up and down his back, doing my best to comfort him. He’s not a physical person, another reason why I was so shocked when the first thing he did was attack me in an embrace. The other times he’s hugged me it’s been such a slow process, one that he had to ease himself into, and they were never this desperate. He had never been desperate to have me this close, not until now. 

Wow, he does love me. 

“Louis,” he whispers, tightening his grip on me. I blink away my tears, wanting to be strong for him. “Yeah?” I breathe back, still rubbing up and down his spine, hoping the pattern gives him comfort. He waits a beat, his breathing ragged against my neck, warm and ragged. “You have to get better, you have to get clean, you have to,” he says, and my heart breaks at the words. Quite literally, I feel it break into two, and all of my bad decisions and regret and guilt come crashing down around me with the words, and the plea attached to them. “I can’t lose you, I can’t, because I love you, I love you so much, and—,” he says, picking up in speed and desperation, but I go to cut him off before he can say anything further, leaning back and pushing him up so that I can look up into his eyes. 

I move my hands to take his face in my hands, my thumbs wiping away his tears because I don’t want him to cry for me. I never want him to cry for me. I swallow my own tears as I try and gather my thoughts, but the more I try and find my words the more flustered I get, and so I decide to just speak from the heart, as cheesy as it sounds. I take a deep breath, and gain confidence by focusing on Harry’s eyes, his glimmering green eyes that I could find in any crowd. All of this occurs as he’s still rambling, and I finally cut him off with a simple series of words. “I will get better for you,” I say, his words stuttering to a stop as he listens to me, his eyes capturing mine and holding them steady. “I will get better because I love you,” I say, the words falling out of my mouth and floating in the air between us like beautiful little butterflies. 

They hang in the air for a moment, as I stare up at him, searching his eyes, trying to see if he comprehends. “I love you,” I repeat, a bit louder. I see a flash of warmth in Harry’s eyes, before fresh tears pool in the corners, and he looks at me in awe, as if he’s surprised to hear me say the words. I nod, repeating the phrase over and over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” I say, and then I can’t stand it anymore, and I pull his face down to meet mine, our lips crashing together, except this time the kiss isn’t rushed, or fueled by frustration and impatience, it’s passionate, it’s full of love and even though I initiated it rather quickly, it slows down exponentially after, our lips moving fluidly together in a type of dance almost. 

Harry melts against me, his tears trailing down his cheeks and giving the kiss a salty aftertaste, but we don’t care. I move my hands to grip the back of his neck as his own slide further down my back, resting on my waist. I put all the words I can’t think of into the kiss, drowning in the feeling of his mouth against mine, my fingers threading in his air, the feeling of completion so potent in the air. I love him, and he loves me. I am loved and he is loved. And together we will be better. I will get clean for him, because I have to be there, for all the night terrors and flashbacks, I have to be there for him. And I need him to be there for me, too. To help me, to protect me from myself. We’re like two halves of one heart, we depend on each other. 

We break off the kiss only for air, and I push our foreheads together, our noses brushing in an eskimo kiss. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” I whisper against his lips, letting a tear or two fall. I feel Harry smile against my lips, his hands running up and down my sides. “I love you back,” he replies, and I chuckle at that, pressing my lips against his once again, moving one hand down the expanse of his back, just taking it all in. Willing it to memory, to be preserved forever. I will never forget this moment. Holding the one I love in my arms, being held and loved back, it’s a memory that not everyone gets to have. And I’ll be damned if I let something as stupid as drugs take it away from me. Nothing can take this moment from me. 

Nothing. 

*** 

As I stand outside of the door, I know. I know that my work is complete. There is nothing left for me to do. And so when I wipe away the tear, it’s a happy tear. 

*six months later* 

They’re holding hands, and it’s quite possibly the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I can’t even properly describe how happy it makes me to see it. I wonder if they’ll keep the embrace when I walk in or not, but just in case they don’t, I take a mental picture with my mind as I peer through the little window in my door, smiling softly to myself as I finish up my phone call. They’re particularly early, but maybe that’s because Harry knew that today was an important day, because I had asked him to bring Louis along, since I hadn’t seen him since that night at the hospital, I had only heard stories. 

And from what I’ve heard, he was doing better. They both were. I still saw Harry on a weekly basis, though immediately after the visit to the psych ward I bumped his sessions to every other day for two weeks, just to make sure that he was stable and recovering, because even though I trusted Louis to take care of him, I knew how much pressure I had put on him, and I didn’t want to risk a single thing. It was rough at first, getting him back into that comfortability, getting him to stop looking over his shoulder every five minutes, or glancing at his phone. He was just so restless, very distracted, mostly because he hated leaving Louis alone for any length of time. 

I found it admirable, that he was putting someone before himself for the first time, and while I understood his concern, I knew that his time was me was just as important as the time he spent with Louis, because I needed to make sure he was okay. It was an hour out of every other day, Louis would be okay for that amount of time, but even so, I did my best to distract him. It wasn’t an easy feat, considering that Harry didn’t care to talk about anything that didn’t relate to Louis in some form or another, but slowly, slowly he stopped worrying so much, and actually started paying attention to me and the sessions, and we eventually got back into the swing of things. He started telling me his stories like always, and I would listen, and analyze, and the main thing I noticed was that as Louis got better, so did Harry. 

I could see it in his eyes. His eyes had always carried with them a helplessness, a desperation that I could never get to go away no matter how long I treated him. I had accepted that it was just going to be like a scar left behind from his childhood. That sadness in his eyes would exist forever, no matter how happy he appeared, or how stable he was, it was just something that was left behind. An after effect of being told you’re worthless for the majority of your childhood. I guess it was a small price to pay in the long run. 

But I didn’t see it anymore. About three months or so after everything, I noticed that when I looked at him, I didn’t find that dark veil of depression. I saw the green in his eyes really shine through, I saw his irises sparkle almost—and I mean that in the cheesiest way. I was thoroughly surprised. I don’t know how or why or exactly when the sadness melted away to be replaced by this steady peacefulness, but I could only assume that it was because of Louis. Harry did always talk about how Louis' eyes were peaceful, he always called it an ‘inner peace’, which didn’t make sense to me at first, because how could a drug addict have inner peace? But apparently Louis had found his, and passed it on to Harry, because now when I look at him, I see it. 

I feel like there is so much more to their story than I am able to tell, but if I were to write it all down, record it all, it would fill a thousand books and I still don’t think myself or anyone who read it would truly be able to understand it, because that’s just how love works. It’s so different for everyone, not one story the same as another. It’s unique, and while I can appreciate it and admire it and learn from it, I don’t think I can ever completely understand it. Because I’m not the one experiencing it, they are. And it is a beautiful sight to see, even if from one side only. But today, today I get to see both sides. And I am looking forward to it, to seeing the fruits of their labor. 

“I’ll call you later babe, I have a patient waiting,” I say, ending the phone call quickly and tucking the device into my pocket, before grabbing Harry’s file from my secretary and entering my office, a smile on my face. Louis and Harry both look up as I enter, and I’m happy when I see that they maintain the hand-holding, the simple gesture just making my heart flutter for them. Shit, I’m a little obsessed with love. Louis smiles brightly up at me, standing up and pulling Harry with him. “Dr. Niall,” he says, surprising me with a hug. I remind myself that Louis is a lot more physical than Harry, and that a hug isn’t out of the ordinary for him, and so I hug him back, chuckling a bit. It’s a one-armed hug, because my other hand is holding papers, and Louis' is holding Harry’s hand, but regardless, it’s nice. Once he releases me, I look at Harry, smiling warmly at him, happy when he returns it, albeit a bit shyly. I don’t stand there awkwardly, instead moving to my usual seat, because I know Harry gets anxious in the silence. 

“You look good, both of you do,” I say as I settle in my seat, crossing my legs like I always do. Louis and Harry sit back down too, the cushions sinking to where their hips are touching, but they make no move to adjust. They share a glance, before looking back at me, Harry blushing and Louis laughing quietly. “Rehab works wonders, apparently,” he says, keeping it light. I laugh, my smile genuine as the happiness for Louis courses through my veins. To know that he is receiving professional help, it not only relieves so much tension I’ve been holding on to, but it makes me feel more confident in my own decisions. I was right in pairing them together, I was right in putting that pressure on Louis. 

“How long have you been sober?” I ask casually, uncapping my pen and scribbling the date and other general information onto my sheets of paper. I see Louis and Harry share a look in my peripheral vision, before Louis answers. “Ever since that night at the hospital,” Louis answers. I look up, raising my eyebrows. I have to admit, I’m surprised. Usually, even after a major threat to one’s life, it takes drug addicts a few more close calls to finally make the decision. But I’ll also admit that Louis' situation was an especially unique one, and so I guess I can understand. “He signed up for the program as soon as he was discharged, I was there,” Harry adds, his other hand moving to rest on top of the one clutching Louis'. I wonder if he knows that he did that, or if it was a subconscious move. Judging by the way he’s staring at me, I’ll say it was subconscious. 

“That’s great,” I say, meaning it. Harry flushes again, dropping his gaze not to his own hands, but to his and Louis' intertwined ones, a small little thing that just makes me want to jump with joy. It’s the little changes that always get me. The little victories in life, the ones that nobody else notices except for me. It’s one of the reasons I became a psychologist, because I believe that even the smallest change in someone’s life can be so significant and deserves recognition, whether it’s good or bad. But that’s my story, and this isn’t my story. This is the end of Harry’s. The end. I have no more incentive to keep seeing him every week. I don’t need to. He has his support system, he has his confidence, he has someone he can talk to every single day, every minute of every single day, someone who knows him just as well as I do by now, and someone that I trust. 

He has his safety, his security, his reassurance, all in one person. He doesn’t need me anymore. He doesn’t need me to remind him that everything will be okay, that he isn’t his father, that he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. He has heard me, and he has found someone who’s mere presence will remind him of that. Part of me is sad to know that he is no longer dependent on me, but the larger part of me is so happy to see it. To know that he has found someone who loves him and that he can love, to know that he is even capable of loving someone after all he’s gone through, it’s a miracle I will say. 

I’ve treated lots of patients, I will treat many more, but none will have ever have quite the impact on me that Harry Styles has had. He’s the ultimate success story. He survived a childhood of abuse, he found somebody to love, and he healed. And I’m so proud of him. I’m so proud of his progress, and I’m proud of Louis too. Louis, who had no reason to love Harry, who wasn’t even a part of this equation in the beginning, who was a drug addict that was able to put a person before his addiction. Who was willing to give up what controlled him for the sake of another person, I owe so much to him. He did what I couldn’t do. He provided Harry with affection, with a security that I wasn’t able to give him, because I didn’t have that kind of relationship with him. 

He said their love was poison. He said that he was poisonous, but not all poison is bad. Some poison heals. Some poison destroys only that which is not supposed to exist. Maybe their love was poisonous. But maybe it was just driving out the sadness and the regret and the anger and the fear. 

At the end of every patient’s treatment, I ask myself a simple question. What have I learned from their experiences? What has their hardship taught me? And I don’t ask myself about the psychological aspects or the medical aspects of it, I ask myself, what life lesson has this taught me? I’m usually able to find one in every patient, with varying degrees of impact. And so I ask myself this question once again, after Louis and Harry have left. 

What have I learned from this? 

I’ve learned that love is a war. And if you’re not willing to fight for it, you will lose it. 

Their love was a war, and they fought for it. And they won. 

 

 

Epilogue (Session One) 

“You’re friends with Harry, then?” I prompt, raising my eyebrows. The boy in front of me shrugs his shoulders, avoiding eye contact, staring absolutely anywhere except for my two eyes. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, which is a pretty common expression, I’ll say. I’ve come to memorize it almost. I tap my pencil for a moment, trying to figure out how best to approach this new patient of mine. He’s quiet, but with a sarcastic side, because every time I try and suggest a topic for conversation, he just scoffs and rolls his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. 

I know he’s here because he suffers from what’s commonly known as ‘existential crises’, except according to Harry, his are constant and a bit extreme, to the point where Harry almost forced him to come and see me. Though, I doubt this kid will ever admit to being forced to go somewhere. He’s tall, with dark brown hair and eyes, dimples that I could probably fall into if I wasn’t careful, and seems to be allergic to colors of any sort, sporting an all-black outfit, from his socks all the way to his earrings. He almost has a permanent frown on his face, as if the world is out to get him, and I wish he would just relax his brow line for a minute, smooth out his forehead. 

He’s already turning out to be one of my more complex patients, I can tell there’s more to him than just some plain existential crisis issues. There’s something else bothering him, something that’s perhaps fueling these thoughts of existentialism and confusion, but I don’t know what yet. Hopefully I can find out, but only if I get him to talk. Problem is, I have no idea what he likes or what his interests are, so I have a bad feeling our first few sessions are going to be spent in silence. Regardless, our time is up for this session, so I click my pen and sit my papers down a bit loudly, signaling the end of the hour. 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you at the same time next week, okay?” I ask, standing up. The boy’s eyes finally flicker to meet mine for a split-second, before darting away once again. He stands up too, towering over me, shoving his hands into his pockets. “M’kay,” he mutters in response a few seconds later, and I smile, though I’m not expecting one in return. I walk him to the door, reaching forward and opening it for him. He falters a bit, eyes flitting over to look at me once more, before he ducks through the door. I follow after him, leaning against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “It was nice meeting you, Zayn!” I call after his retreating form. He pauses his walk, and I’m halfway hoping he’ll turn around and say something back, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t, resuming his pace and leaving the office without a word. 

I sigh, walking over to my secretary’s desk, tapping softly on the counter as I look at the space Dan Howell was just occupying. “Who’s scheduled next, Emma?” I ask, my gaze a bit contemplative, as I’m still trying to figure out this mystery of a patient. “Uh, Liam Payne,” Emma answers. My eyes widen as the familiar face of my OCD patient pops into my head, a smile spreading across my face for some unknown reason. “Oh good, maybe he’ll bump into Zayn,” I say, looking over and grinning at Emma. Emma blinks a few times, staring back at me. “Why? Would that be a good thing?” she asks. I chuckle, shrugging my shoulders as I turn around and walk back toward my office. “Perhaps!” I say. 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

Conclusion: No longer needs to attend weekly sessions, only make appointments if necessary. No longer a suicidal concern or threat to others. (Proud of you, Harry) 

Date: May 6th, 2017

Signed: Dr. Niall James Horan,   
MD, PhD, University of Roehampton, London, England

**Author's Note:**

> originally published on wattpad!


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